


Grim

by fantom_ftnoise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abduction, Angst, BSL, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, British Sign Language, Deaf, Disability, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Medicine, Nerve Damage, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Padfoot eats someone, Partial Blindness, Physical Disability, Recovery, Sign Language, Torture, Vision loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-08 14:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantom_ftnoise/pseuds/fantom_ftnoise
Summary: Peter Pettigrew is the poster-boy for disaster-preparedness.  When Sirius Black breaks into Hogwarts in 1993, Peter decides to put his backup plan into action.  He kidnaps Harry Potter, intending to use the boy to barter his way back into the Dark Lord's good graces.  But holding a hostage while trying to track down a sentient shade is logistically tricky, and he begins to lose his grip.OR:Harry goes to sleep one night and when he wakes, he's tied up in a strange room with a strange man who is most certainly not Sirius Black.  He's endured who knows how many curses, Dumbledore's not coming to his rescue, and there's a grisly looking dog that either wants to eat him or befriend him.  And a rat that most definitely wants to eat him.OR:Neville is determined to help his friend recover from a terrible and mysterious ordeal.  He'll do whatever it takes, but he will not leave Harry to languish in the Janus Thickey Ward.





	1. Who goes there?

**Author's Note:**

> This story is divided into thirds: The first third is all horrible angsty torture, you're welcome. The second third is capital-N Nothing, it's stasis and uncertainty. The third third is longer strides in recovery and our heroes reclaiming their lives with some good ol' fashioned adventure.
> 
> It's a "What if?"-POA story and we'll follow along with Harry's canon-achievements as much as possible while facing new challenges that Peter brings into the mix. Expect it to follow the bare-bones of canon with a showdown at the end, but things will work out a little differently. I'm working on Chapter 8 now and will post more as I finish editing. The whole story should be about 60-75k words.
> 
> EDIT: June 22, 2018 This fic is on a (hopefully short) hold until I get through some stuff. Not a clever idea to write angst while you're depressed, folks. Not clever at all. I have some more already written so I'll probably post another chapter or two (Chapters 7 & 8) in the mean time, if I can get around to editing.
> 
>  __Find me on[tumblr!](https://fantom-ftnoise.tumblr.com/)

**Tuesday, November 9th:  11:59pm**

Everything was planned perfectly.  He was a Marauder, after all. He hadn't spent seven years as a master prankster without picking up some tricks along the way.

 

The whole of Gryffindor house was dosed with a sleeping potion at dinner.  A large cauldron, which he had borrowed from the Longbottom boy, had been more than enough to disperse across the various dishes in the kitchens.  The house elves of Hogwarts had always been great fans of his; he had visited them often in his school days. He was pleased to visit again and shower them with compliments.  The elves had done a fine job of lining up plates, trays, and bowls of food on the long table in the kitchen that matched the Gryffindor table above. He was able to make a quick job of spiking everything while he “sampled” this and that (much to the delight of his little friends).  At dinnertime, the food was sent up to the Great Hall above and he only had to wait.

 

Wormtail scuttled into the third year boys' dorm and made a quick lap around the room to be sure the potion had done the trick.  He needn't have worried. The Marauders had played this quiet trick month after month on their own housemates. It would have been most inconvenient to try to sneak out of (and later back into) Gryffindor Tower on the full moon if there were any lingering students in the common room.  Just as it would be inconvenient if anyone now were fighting the tug of sleep... But they were not. It was nearing midnight and slow, even breathing drifted from every bed. Utter stillness. He looped back around the room to the target bed. He concentrated and—it was getting easier now—stretched into his human form, staying low to the ground.  Raising a shaking hand, he parted the curtains around the bed slightly and found the boy that his master had befriended: he was sleeping deeply.

 

But no...Ron Weasley wasn't his master.  Peter shook his head at the ridiculous thought of being ruled by a thirteen-year-old ginger.  The Dark Lord was his master. The Dark Lord would protect him from Sirius Black. It was only a matter of time before Sirius got Remus on his side, and then they would come for Peter together.  Or Padfoot would hunt him down alone. But Peter was never one to sit and wait for trouble to befall him. An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure: the sleeping potion that Gryffindor students were dosed with every full moon in the late 1970s; the fateful meeting he had sought with the Dark Lord after the Potter boy's birth; the public setting for his inevitable confrontation with Sirius.  Peter wasn't an idiot. He showed initiative, and that's why he was still alive and relatively happy. Comfortable even, until Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban. And Peter wasn't going to wait for everything to come crashing down around him.

 

Peter pulled back the curtain further and reached for the wand on the bedside table.  He knocked a pair of spectacles to the floor and froze at the sound, but no one stirred.  He snatched up the wand and aimed it at the dozing figure in the bed.

 

“ _ Stupefy! _ ” he whispered.  A jet of red light—too bright in the dark and quiet room—sank into Harry Potter's chest.  Harry's eyes remained closed, his chest continued to rise and fall with each breath, but Peter knew he wouldn't wake up for many hours now, no matter how rough the journey.

 

Peter pocketed the wand and moved to the trunk at the end of the bed.  He dug through to the bottom, knocking a stack of empty potions vials to the side.  A high-pitched whirring sound reached his ears and it became louder as he shifted books, clothes, and trinkets aside.  He moved an old pair of socks and the whirring sound became unbearably loud in the otherwise silent dormitory. Peter shoved the possessed socks unceremoniously under a stack of clothes, muffling the sound.  His hands closed around familiar silky material and he yanked the Invisibility Cloak out of the trunk, letting the lid fall closed on top of a Weasley jumper.

 

“ _ Mobilicorpus _ ,” Peter swung the wand in Harry's direction and the boy levitated clumsily out from under the covers.  He was mostly vertical, his arms and legs floating slightly more freely than his torso while his head lolled around stupidly.  Peter covered them both in the cloak, taking up position behind the boy. He wrapped an arm loosely around Harry’s bony chest, pinning his floating arms down.  He could have carried the skinny lad himself and remained safely hidden by the large cloak, but he had spent the last twelve years living as a rat. It wasn’t a long journey ahead of them, but it could be treacherous.  It was best to conserve his strength.

 

The first set of stairs, which led to the common room, was a bumbling mess for the pair.  Peter nearly rolled an ankle as he tried to simultaneously hold the levitation charm, keep the cloak in place, and hold the boy's arms down.  It was like wrestling with a string puppet. The narrow spiral stairs were uneven and he felt every bit the klutz he was in his school days. But once they made it through the portrait hole (“I say, who goes there?!” Sir Cadogen cried valiantly to an apparently empty corridor), Peter found it much easier to move.  

 

It seemed to take days to make it through the halls and down endless staircases.  He approached the Entrance Hall and the front doors were finally in sight. Peter rounded the corner and was halfway down the stairs when his heart stopped.  He suddenly had to crush himself and the boy against the railing of the grand staircase as Severus Snape stalked up from the dungeons and strolled by. Peter muffled a squeak when he felt the brush of Snape's billowing robes, but the Slytherin bat was soon out of sight.  Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He adjusted his hold on his captive and shuffled across the Entrance Hall, through the doors, and into the night.

 

The Whomping Willow was as violent as ever.  It had no eyes, so it didn't matter that they were under an Invisibility Cloak.  It swung its huge branches at them as soon as it sensed their presence. Peter left the protection of the cloak as a rat, scuttling forward and pressing the knot to freeze the tree.  On his return, he realized his mistake...the boy was still invisible. And floating. The grass was already weighed down from the week of rain they'd had and there was no evidence of where Peter had been standing moments before.  He transformed back into his human form and held out his arms, desperately sweeping through the area. The moon was bright, waning now but still nearly full, and he felt awfully exposed out here. After several heart-stopping minutes, his elbow knocked into something solid and he used his newly acquired wand to direct the still-invisible third year into the hole that was hidden among the Whomping Willow's roots.  He scurried underground just as the Whomping Willow sprang back to life.

 

They were alone and hidden, free of the castle.  The first part of his mission was a success. Peter removed James Potter's cloak, piled it up, and pinned it under his arm.  He lit his stolen wand, nearly dropping the levitation charm. He made their way through the tunnel and took time to observe the one thing that would win him the Dark Lord’s forgiveness.  Harry's head drooped against his chest and he looked so different without his ridiculous glasses. Still remarkably like James Potter, of course. That tousled hair was especially messy after a few hours of sleep and his pajamas were filthy after being blindly levitated through a hole in the ground.  Peter wondered if he should have grabbed a cloak—not for the boy, but for himself. It was November, after all. Harry would likely be dead within the week, but Peter would live. And he couldn't very well stroll into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. He sighed at his uncharacteristic lack of foresight.  It seemed he was stuck wearing what he had worn on the first of November, twelve years ago. For now.

 

They arrived at the Shrieking Shack and Peter couldn't be more grateful that it had remained undisturbed.  He found the familiar furnished room upstairs, where Remus used to transform all those years ago. The full moon was only a few days past and it appeared that Professor R. J. Lupin was not using his old Shack anymore.  Peter dropped the levitation charm and Harry fell to the wooden floor with a thud, kicking up a large plume of dust. Peter conjured ropes that wrapped around the boy's forearms, then flicked his wand to the rafters above.  Harry was pulled along. He hung equidistant between the wall and the bed, his arms stretched straight up above his head. The momentum of the sudden movement caused him to swing back and forth; the rafter creaked slightly, but held strong.  Peter nodded in satisfaction before pocketing the wand and collapsing on the bed. He covered himself in the cloak for warmth and went to sleep.

 

* * *

His shoulders were aching and his head was pounding.  Harry couldn't seem to take a full breath. His nose felt stuffed and he wondered if he was coming down with something after Saturday's stormy Quidditch game.  His eyes fluttered open and he made to reach for his glasses, but found he couldn't. His arms were numb. He tried to look up but couldn't lift his chin from his chest.  He sneezed, and then coughed, and...was he swaying? 

 

He blinked rapidly, trying to get his bearings.  Pale sunlight bore into the otherwise dim room in harsh beams and everything was blurry, but it was obvious that he wasn't in Gryffindor Tower.  He wasn't in bed, he wasn't even lying down. His arms were trapped somewhere above him, and the sharp angle of his shoulders meant he couldn't lift his head.  He kicked out instinctively, trying to find some mobility. He was barefoot and it was freezing, but his feet weren't...they weren't touching anything? He was swinging from his arms, suspended from the ceiling with his feet several inches above the floor.  Harry's eyes darted around his blurry surroundings, a sour note of panic in his chest.

 

“H-hello?” he grunted, his chin pressed against his pajama top.  

 

A shuffling movement came from directly ahead of him and he peered up through his eyelashes to watch.  A large bed took up that side of the room and a form suddenly appeared on it out of nowhere. The figure stood up, stretched, then approached.  Harry was tethered just two feet away from the man. If he had been able to lift his head, he would have been perfectly eye-level with him. As it was, he could only see the lower half of him.  His skin was pale, his clothes were more ill-fitted and threadbare than anything Harry had ever received from the Dursleys, and his hand gripped a wand.

 

“Harry!” the figure whispered in a squeaky, wavering voice.  “You're awake!” 

 

Was he surprised?  The last thing Harry remembered was going to sleep.  After going to sleep, people generally woke up. And they generally woke up in their beds.

 

“Where am I?” he asked.  

 

He pressed his head back against his arms.  After a moment's struggle, he was able to squeeze his ears past his arms.  He looked at the man straight-on, his biceps pressing on either side of his face.  A foreboding feeling told him he would find the unhinged eyes of an escaped convict, but when he squinted...

 

“The Shr—no,” the man cut himself off.  “No, you shouldn't know. Just in case. You're a slip-slippery one, Harry,” he laughed nervously.  “I've got you here, safe and sound, that's all that matters. D-don't you worry about where.” Harry frowned.  Graying blond hair, a slightly bulbous nose, small eyes, large teeth…

 

This was not Sirius Black.

 

“Who are you?  Do you know Sirius Black?  Are you working with him?” Harry spouted quickly.  He tried to shift to relieve the strain on his shoulders, but he was tethered tightly.  He could feel the ropes begin at his wrists and wrap all the way down his forearms.

 

The man's eyes widened.  

 

“I do,” he muttered, his tone slightly manic.  “I do know Sirius Black.” He took a step closer and raised the wand threateningly.  “Do  _ you _ know Sirius Black?  Has he spoken to you?!”

 

“What?” Harry snapped, his confusion doubling.  “No!”

 

“No, of course not,” the man nodded, looking relieved.  “I'd have known. He never made it past the portrait anyway.”  Was the man working with Black or not? He obviously knew of the Halloween attack on the Fat Lady just over a week ago.  But the fear in his voice led Harry to believe that this man wanted nothing to do with Black.

 

“Who are you?” Harry repeated, still squinting.  The man lowered his wand and looked at Harry strangely.

 

“I was a friend,” he said in his small voice.  “I would've been an uncle to you, I suppose. Once.”  An image flashed in Harry's mind of Uncle Vernon, but he pushed it away.  “I held you when you were a baby, you know,” he continued. “Played with you.  Dropped you once,” he chuckled sadly. “You bounced, it was fine. But Lily wouldn't let me pick you up after that.”  

 

Harry tried to lean away as the man stepped closer, but he was trapped.  

 

“I knew you had to die,” the man whispered, his face twitching.  Harry could make out a wart on his cheek and he stared at it so he wouldn't have to look into those beady eyes.  “I always knew, as soon as you were born. I didn't want it, you have to understand...” his voice turned pleading but Harry refused to meet his gaze and the voice hardened again.  “What the Dark Lord wants, he gets. That's the trick, Harry. That's all there is to it. I was in a p-position to help h-him...that's all he wanted. That's all. In exchange for my  _ life _ , Harry!”  The man suddenly reached out and clutched at Harry's shirt, the dark flannel bunching in his grimy hands.  Harry swung toward him unwillingly, bending his legs away, leaning his head back as far as he could.

 

“What are you talking about?!” he bit out, looking anywhere but at the man whose desperate face was inches from his own.

 

“You wouldn't know about me,” the man spat in quiet fury.  He shoved Harry away, sending him into a wild spin. He closed his eyes against the mad blur.  “Of course they wouldn't tell you. Not even Remus, I suppose. I was never  _ important _ enough to them.  The Marauders. The Order.”  The spinning slowed down, stopped, and then began again the other way, picking up speed as the twists in the rope began to unwind in the other direction.  “B-but to the Dark Lord,” his voice brightened, though it was still tinged with fear. “The Dark Lord knew I had talent. I had information. I have skills!  I can be useful!”

 

“You can be  _ used _ ,” Harry blurted, still spinning blindly.  The man snarled and reached out, gripping him by an arm and jerking him to a stop.  Harry's eyes flew open in time to see the wand come up.

 

_ “Crucio!” _

 

Pain erupted within him.  Every inch of his being was in agony, he was tearing apart, white-hot knives pressed in on him from all sides.  He was screaming, twitching, twisting helplessly in the air. As suddenly as it began, it passed. Harry was left gasping and shuddering, tears in his eyes.  The man was breathing heavily, gripping the wand with both hands. Harry could feel his arms now, they were no longer numb. He could feel his heartbeat against the ropes.

 

“You don't know what you're talking about,” the man hissed.  “You don't know, Harry. You were just a baby. You were supposed to die and everyone would move on.  Your parents could've had more. I wasn't—I wasn't  _ ruining _ anything.  The younger you were, the better.  We could all just move on. I could be an uncle for their next child.”  

 

Harry was barely listening.  He tried to catch his breath but began coughing, choking on the dust that permeated the air.  

 

“ _ You _ ruined it," the man continued.  " _ You _ , not me.  You weren't supposed to survive.  That's all he wanted! ...then I could be free.  That's what he said.” The man lowered his wand, but the snarl remained in place.  “Now I'm here, with  _ you _ , in this stupid shack, in these stupid  _ clothes _ .  I don't even have my own wand anymore!”  Harry's eyes darted down at the blurry image of a wand.  He had a sick feeling in his stomach and somehow knew he was just cursed with his own wand.  “I have to keep playing this stupid game,” the man whispered, his voice full of emotion. “I have to get you to the Dark Lord.  He'll protect me from  _ him _ .  He promised.  The Dark Lord keeps his promises.  And after I hand you over, I'll be free.”

 

Harry swallowed against a cough, glaring.  “You'll never be free,” he spat incredulously.  “He doesn't let anyone go. You fell for his trick, you—”

 

“How would you know?!” the man squeaked, shoving him back petulantly.  Harry swung backward and then forward again like a pendulum, bending and twisting his legs uselessly.  The man stopped him roughly and held him in place, aiming the wand between his eyes. Harry flinched, waiting for the curse.  “You were a baby, you don't know what it was like! People were disappearing all around us! Strong witches and wizards, people who thought they were safe.  But no one was safe! Least of all  _ us _ while  _ you _ were around.  You had to die and then we would all be free.  One life for all of ours. I was making the right decision!”  The man's eyes were full of angry tears but Harry couldn't look away from the wand.  “And he  _ hated _ me for it!”

 

“Who?” Harry whispered, his gaze still on the wand.

 

“Sirius.”  The answer sounded far away, distracted, and the wand drifted slightly as the man's gaze became unfocused.  

 

Harry acted on instinct.  He bent his elbows and heaved himself up, his weight straining against the ropes.  He lifted his legs and kicked hard at his captor's groin, causing him to wheeze and double over in pain.  Harry wrapped his legs around the man awkwardly. One leg hooked over his wand-arm while the other foot pressed against his throat.  The man threw his body to the side and Harry was pulled along with him. The ropes cut painfully into his arms but he remained tethered, and the man was dragged back into Harry's space.  He was throwing hexes and the spells went flying around the room. The man ducked down, trying to wriggle out of his reach, and Harry managed to find purchase in this new position. His feet climbed on top of his hunched back and he pressed himself up into a standing position.  The ropes went slack as his head popped up next to a rafter in the ceiling. He wrapped his bound forearms around the beam, still standing precariously on the back of the sputtering wizard beneath him.

 

The man twisted out from under him.  Harry had to use his entire upper body to scramble onto the rafter.  His fingers were bunched together by the rope and they were useless in gripping the wooden beam.  He kicked up his now-dangling legs and swung one over the beam, like he was mounting a broom. The loose length of rope still tethered him to the beam itself.  His arms remained tightly bound together and his legs were open to attack as they straddled the ten inch wide beam. 

 

From the floor, the man swore loudly.  Harry saw him step against the back wall to take aim.  When he raised his wand, Harry ducked down on the other side of the beam, nearly losing his balance.  An angry red spell crashed into the rafter, causing the wood to splinter and vibrate. Harry popped up again as the man moved to his side of the beam, then ducked down on the other side as another spell came barreling towards him.  He had to throw his whole body to the side of the beam, holding on precariously as he might do on his broom if a bludger were headed his way. The spell slammed into the rafter. The wood fractured and broke, and, with a crunching sound, Harry crashed to the floor.

 

Harry rolled out of the way as he felt more than saw another bright jet of light.  It crashed into the debris, missing him by an inch. He rolled free of the shattered beam, dragging the length of rope along with him.  The rope that still bound his arms was now just tied to a broken piece of wood that was roughly the size of a large book. The man made a whining sound and stepped to the left.  Harry spotted a blurry rectangle shape in the wall behind him and hoped that it would be the way out. They waited, both breathing heavily. Then the next spell flew and Harry ducked.  He stepped forward, barely registering the splinters that dug into his bare feet. He picked up a chunk of wood and hurled it at the man's face. Harry didn't wait to see if it hit the mark; he darted forward.  He ducked under the man's wand-arm and flew to the door, reaching for the knob with both hands.

 

It didn't turn.

 

He threw his shoulder against the door, trying to push it open.  It didn't budge. Then he pulled on the knob with all his might, willing it to open that way instead.  But it remained firmly closed. The wizard was still behind him, within reach, and Harry thought he heard a surprised laugh.  He couldn't be sure. His ears were ringing.

 

_ “Crucio!” _

 

* * *

**Wednesday, November 10th:  8:45am**

 

Ron finally rolled out of bed just fifteen minutes before Potions was due to start and shuffled to the bathroom.  Five minutes later, he came back out and dressed in a zombie-like fog. He had conked out last night well before ten o'clock and easily could have slept another four hours, at least.  Maybe he was ill? But no, he felt fine. His bed was just far too comfortable.

 

Passing by Harry's empty bed on the way out, Ron opened up his friend's trunk and began rummaging around for a spare quill.  He would have to send home for more quills, or perhaps dig into Percy's stash. He noticed that a Weasley jumper had been tossed carelessly over the edge of the trunk and was now crinkled from the weight of the trunk's lid that had been closed on top of it.  Ron frowned as he rifled through the messy trunk. Harry was by no means the neatest person, but those Muggle relatives had brain-washed him enough to keep his few belongings in general order. Of the spare and dirty clothes that littered the dorm room floor, none of it was ever Harry's.  His belongings, now strewn about his trunk haphazardly, were usually fairly easy to sort through. 

 

Ron dug helplessly through the mess, still searching for spare quills, and he heard a series of fragile clinks as he moved a winter cloak.  Harry's potion supplies—vials, cauldron, scales and all—were at the bottom of the trunk. Ron snorted. Harry must have been in a hurry this morning to have left his things in such a state, and to forget about the horror that was Double Potions on Wednesday mornings!  He piled the supplies and a ragged quill into the pewter cauldron, grabbed his own materials, and hurried out of the dorm room.

 

When he arrived to the dungeon classroom, however, Harry was nowhere in sight.

 

“Where's Harry?” Hermione asked him as he set the two cauldrons down on their usual workstation at the back.

 

Ron shrugged.  “I dunno, I thought he'd be here.  Wasn't he at breakfast?” Hermione shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but Snape cut her off with the beginning of the lecture.

 

* * *

Two hours later, the Gryffindor third years escaped the dark dungeon.  Neville was lugging Harry's cauldron along with them. Even with Harry's absence, it was lucky that Ron had brought it along, since Neville had managed to misplace his own cauldron.

 

“I do hope he's alright,” Hermione said, worrying her lip.  “I suspect he's not fully recovered from Saturday's game. He must be with Madam Pomfrey.”

 

Ron wrinkled his brow, adjusting his grip on the two cauldrons.  “When have you ever known Harry to willingly visit the Hospital Wing?” he scoffed.

 

“Maybe he's with Lupin?” Neville suggested, panting slightly.  “They had lunch together during the last Hogsmeade trip,” he reasoned.  

 

Hermione seemed to agree.  “You know how those dementors affect him, and Professor Lupin seems better equipped than anyone to handle it.  I just hope he remembers to write a note so Harry doesn't get in trouble for missing Potions.”

 

“He's fine, Hermione,” Ron sighed.  “He's not some delicate flower. Saturday's game was ages ago.  He probably just didn't want to see Snape's ugly mug first thing in the morning so he skived.”

 

“Harry doesn't skip class!” Hermione sounded scandalized.

 

“ _ You _ don't skip class, don't go projecting your obsession onto us,” Ron countered, rolling his eyes.  Ron, Hermione, and Neville arrived back at the common room and the boys began to climb the spiral stairs.  Ron only half-expected to see his friend in the dorm. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he was probably right.  Harry was likely hiding out by the Quidditch pitch, mourning the loss of his Nimbus 2000. Or perhaps visiting Hedwig in the owlery.

 

“Harry?” he called lazily when he opened the dorm door.  There was no reply. Neville shrugged and left the spare cauldron by their friend's trunk, retreating to the bathroom.  Ron lifted the trunk lid again and began picking through Harry's things. He smirked knowingly. The cloak was gone, which confirmed his suspicions.  Harry was skiving class today. Ron dumped his own cauldron by his trunk, called a goodbye to Neville, and returned downstairs to inform Hermione on their way to lunch.

 

* * *

It was dinnertime and Harry Potter had yet to make an appearance.  Remus was worried. Harry's favorite subject was Defense, and McGonagall had informed him more than once who Harry's favorite professor seemed to be.  His heart was always warm when he thought of that. But right now he was worried. Harry had missed an entire day of classes, including Defense, which his friend Hermione Granger said was most out of character.  He was inclined to take her word with a grain of salt; to her, skiving class was a crime punishable by Azkaban. But Ron Weasley was now at a loss as well, though he was trying to be coy with his answers. Remus admired the loyalty, but wished he would be more upfront.  Everyone was remarkably calm, but terror was gripping his heart and it was all he could do to appear neutral on the outside.

 

And so Remus and McGonagall followed Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger up to the third year boys dormitory, a crowd of curious Gryffindor eyes watching them as they passed.  The twins exchanged glances and huddled together conspiratorially. Remus prayed that they could just locate Harry safely (and perhaps assign a detention for all this worry) before any pranks interrupted their search.

 

“His—err...” Ron started before cutting himself off.  Hermione took the lead.

 

“He took his invisibility cloak,” she said frankly.  Remus was suddenly flooded with fond memories of James Potter's cloak.

 

“I don't know what Albus was thinking,” McGonagall muttered.  “To give that reckless boy an invisibility cloak...” 

 

Remus smirked, but then his face fell.  If Harry were hiding from them under the cloak, it would be impossible to find him until he wanted to be found.  But the whims of a thirteen-year-old were just not important when Sirius Black was on the loose. Waiting for any opportunity, any opening.... He had gotten into the castle once already.  Remus wished more than anything that he still had the Marauder's Map in his possession.

 

“And he hasn't been back here all day?” Remus asked, kneeling by the trunk.  Ron shifted uncomfortably. Remus ignored his obvious misgivings and began sifting through Harry Potter's belongings.  He found a small collection of outrageously huge Muggle clothing, various spellbooks, a photo album, a winter cloak, a pair of dragon-hide gloves, a telescope, and three uniforms.  It was evening, so the house elves should have returned the laundry by now.... “Does Harry wear pajamas to bed?”

 

“Red flannel,” Ron nodded.  “Used to be mine. Dursleys never gave him anything proper to sleep in,” he grumbled.

 

Remus grimaced.  “They're not here,” he continued uneasily.  There was an uncomfortable pause. “Did he wear them last night?”  Ron nodded again.

 

“They're all he's got,” he answered quietly, looking pensive.  

 

Hermione suddenly darted over to the bedside table.  She opened the drawer, looked behind and around the stack of books, and finally dropped to the floor.  “Here!” she screeched. Her legs kicked out dramatically as she reached far under the bed.

 

“Ms. Granger?” McGonagall asked, her voice tinged with concern.  Hermione popped up from under the bed, holding something up in horror.

 

“His glasses?!”  Ron gasped.

 

“Harry's practically blind without his glasses!” Hermione was pale.  “He's in his pajamas--and he doesn't have his glasses, he—he—”

 

“Is his wand here?” McGonagall snapped.  Hermione shook her head mutely and Remus felt his heart drop as the implications became clear.

 

Sirius Black had taken Harry.  He was armed with a wand and an invisibility cloak and had an entire day's head-start.  And Harry was blind.

 

* * *

  
“Professor McGonagall,” Fred called, his voice uncharacteristically serious.  McGonagall stopped in the corridor and spun on her heel, waiting rather impatiently for the twins to approach.  It was well past curfew now but their Head of House didn't seem to notice (or didn't care) that they weren't in Gryffindor Tower.

 

“Mr. Weasley,” she greeted stiffly.  “Mr. Weasley,” she repeated, looking at George.

 

“We have something that might help,” George said.  He pulled out the old piece of parchment, holding it reverently.  McGonagall looked down at it skeptically.

 

“It's a map of Hogwarts,” Fred supplied, getting straight to the point.

 

“ _ I solemnly swear that I am up to no good _ ,” said George clearly, pointing his wand at the parchment.  Magical ink began to spread across the page and the Marauders welcomed them once again to their precious map.

 

“It shows everyone's location in Hogwarts and on the grounds—”

 

“—all the secret passageways.”

 

George held out the map and McGonagall snatched it out of his hands, her eyes greedily devouring the page.

 

“We've looked everywhere,” Fred said sadly.

 

“He isn't here.  Harry's gone.”

 

They were silent as McGonagall continued scouring the map.  Finally, she looked up at them with an unreadable expression.

 

“Where did you get this?” she asked harshly.  Fred and George winced.

 

“We've had it for some time,” George answered vaguely.

 

“It never once left our possession,” said Fred, meeting her accusing gaze.

 

“I wish you'd have thought to turn this in last week,” she continued.  “After the Fat Lady was attacked, I am shocked you would hang onto a tool like this when we—”

 

“We know,” they chorused.  And they did. 

 

The guilt was only just beginning to set in, a few hours after Ron had returned to the common room in a state of shock.  Fred and George had looked through the map thoroughly on Halloween night, but hadn't found a trace of Black. He had disappeared.  And with the increased security after that night, they never imagined how Black could possibly return for a second attempt. But he had.  And now he had Harry Potter, the scrawny third year who was always able to tell them apart—or at least always tried to. They had rescued him from his dismal relatives last year only to leave him vulnerable to a crazed lunatic, the escaped convict, You-Know-Who's right-hand man.  The fifth year twins wouldn't crack another joke until Harry Potter was back in Gryffindor tower.

 

“ _ Mischief Managed _ ,” George said, wiping the map clear again.

 

“We're sorry.”

 

“Just get him back.  Please.”

 

* * *

It was late Wednesday night.

 

Remus now found himself in the staff room, sitting to Dumbledore's left.  McGonagall was the last to arrive, taking the seat on the headmaster's other side.  To her right sat Snape, who was glowering at Remus. The familiar faces of the entire Hogwarts staff lined the conference table.  Alastor Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were also present. Everyone listened to Dumbledore's explanation of events with grave expressions.  Young Nymphadora Tonks, a recent graduate of the auror program and cousin to Sirius Black, sat between the other two aurors. Her hair was dark and straight, her eyes blazing with determination.

 

“Sir Cadogen was unable to estimate what time this incident occurred, only that it was night,” Dumbledore was saying now.  “It's likely that Black used Harry's own invisibility cloak—”

 

“Which means we don't know if Potter was even alive when he left Gryffindor tower,” Snape deadpanned.

 

“He was alive,” Moody barked.  “He'll want to torture the boy before he finishes the job.”  The Weasleys blanched and Remus felt dizzy. “He'd take him to a discrete location.  Alive.”

 

“We just need to find him in time,” Shacklebolt intoned.  Tonks nodded, reaching out a hand to comfort the Weasleys.  McGonagall's face was pale and pinched, her eyes glued to the wall behind Remus.

 

“Remus, my boy,” Dumbledore began gently.  “You knew him better than anyone.” Remus snorted, feeling half-crazed.   _ Apparently I never knew him at all _ , he thought.  That was the problem.  “Where might he have taken young Harry?”

 

“I...” he cleared his throat and then fell quiet, feeling helpless.  Snape's dark eyes bore into him mercilessly.

 

“A list of possibilities will do,” Moody said impatiently.  “Otherwise we're flying without a broom.” Remus swallowed.

 

“He was never afraid of the forest,” he rasped.  “Spent a lot of time sneaking around in there. Knows it like the back of his hand, I'd say.”  It was true. The Marauders had spent countless hours exploring the Forbidden Forest. The Black heir had been drawn to the dangerous wilderness like a moth to a flame.

 

“Any particular area?” Kingsley pressed.

 

Remus shrugged.  “Stayed away from the acromantula, was never a fan of them.”

 

“I believe the centaurs might be of some assistance,” Dumbledore picked up, looking at Hagrid pointedly.

 

“I'll go now,” Hagrid said hoarsely, rising from his seat.  Dumbledore nodded.

 

“Auror Tonks, if you could accompany me?” the old wizard asked, standing as well.  Tonks rose from her seat and followed him to the door. “The logistics of scouring the forest are left to you, Alastor.  I'll be in touch again within the hour.”

 

Moody and Kingsley took over the meeting from there.  They laid out an emergency operation, to be implemented immediately.  A few staff members would remain at Hogwarts while everyone else paired off and searched the forest.  Sparks would be sent up if they needed help: red sparks would summon the aurors if anyone encountered Black himself; green sparks would call for general assistance in case someone was overwhelmed by any of the other dangers they might face in the ancient and magical forest; blue sparks would signal an end to their search...if they were too late.

 

They broke and left the staff room at a brisk pace, heading for the woods.  McGonagall held him back. Remus looked at her curiously, but she remained silent while the others pulled away.  When they were alone in the corridor, she removed a large piece of parchment from her pocket.

 

“Misters Fred and George Weasley saw fit that this document fall into my possession this morning,” she spoke softly.  Her lips were thin as she handed it over and Remus examined the parchment. He stifled a shocked laugh.

 

“I never thought I'd see this again,” he finally managed to say.  McGonagall's expression remained unchanged.

 

“You know what it is?” she asked.  But it wasn't really a question for as soon as he unlocked the Marauder's Map, his own name was written across the page to welcome him.  “Mr. Moony,” she sighed, somewhat sadly.

 

“How did they acquire such a thing?”

 

“That's not important,” she quipped, suddenly business-like again.  “I trust you to keep a close eye on this map. It may prove invaluable in capturing Black.”   _ Black won't return to Hogwarts grounds now, _ Remus thought darkly, still staring at the map.   _ He's already got what he wanted. _  But he nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.  McGonagall seemed satisfied and they continued on their way to the forest.

 

* * *

**Saturday, November 13th**

 

Peter woke slowly, as was his custom.  Awareness gradually returned to him. It had been three days and three nights since his mission began.  He had taken to sleeping in his human form, stubbornly trying to adjust to being a proper wizard again. When he returned to the Dark Lord's graces, he wouldn't return as a rat.  As comfortable as his animagus form had been over the years, Peter would have to get used to his proper form again eventually. And he wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. There was nothing here to frighten him anyway.  Just a boy, hanging from the newly repaired rafters.

 

Peter had learned his lesson Wednesday morning, no doubt about that.  Now the boy's feet were tied together and a length of rope ran from his ankles, up his back, and tied to his wrists.  It wasn't quite a hogtie, but it would certainly prevent him from kicking forward again.

 

“Water?” he offered graciously, still sitting on the bed.  Harry's eyes were closed but Peter knew he was awake. He barely slept, which was a pity.  If Peter had been in his position, he would prefer to sleep away all of this discomfort. “No?” he asked.  Harry had taken some water Thursday, but after a few swallows the boy had spit the rest in Peter's face. Now it was Saturday.  Peter tried to remember how long a person could go without water, but he couldn't recall. It didn't seem to be very long at all, going by Harry's pale face, cracked lips, and shallow breathing.  Harry still said nothing.

 

Peter stood heavily to his feet, approaching cautiously, wand out.

 

“I'll give you water if you promise not to spit,” he said, mindful to keep his voice friendly.  No response. Peter was beginning to get frustrated. If the boy died of thirst, he would be no use.  “Harry?”

 

Green eyes fluttered open and glared hard at Peter.  He was reminded sharply of Lily for a moment. She had always been kind to Peter, up until the day baby Harry had wriggled out of his grasp and was dropped off the front porch.  The kid had bounced to safety but Lily was upset. Beyond upset, really. She had screeched herself hoarse, going on about how irresponsible he had been, to hold Harry with one arm while he sipped hot tea with the other.  James did it all the time, but that apparently didn't matter. Nothing James Potter ever did was wrong. Lily wouldn't let Peter hold Harry after that.

 

Peter raised the wand tantalizingly even as he stared into those eerily familiar eyes.  

 

“Water?”

 

Harry nodded once.

 

“Do you promise not to spit?”

 

Harry nodded again, still glaring fiercely.  Peter wasn't sure he trusted him, but really, how much harm could he do while he was tied up like this?

 

_ “Aguamenti.” _  Peter tilted the wand at an angle against Harry's lips as a stream of water poured out.  Half of it dribbled down the boy's chin and over his clothes, but that was just as well. He needed a bath, in all honesty.  Peter hadn't fully considered the logistics of keeping a prisoner until he smelled the urine on the unconscious boy Wednesday afternoon.  Ah, well. The pajamas were soiled now; it was no use trying to find a way to keep the boy's dignity and run the risk of losing him during a trip to the loo.  Besides, Peter's sense of smell wasn't nearly as sharp now as it was in his rat form. He could stomach this. And he had seen, heard, and smelled much worse during his time among the Death Eaters.

 

“There,” he said, pulling the wand back.  Harry didn't seem to be done drinking but Peter didn't want to test his compliance.  It was mid-November, he didn't have a cloak, and he wasn't in the mood to get his robes wet again.  “I'm going to run some errands,” he continued vaguely. Harry stared at him blankly. “You're to stay put.”  Peter smirked a little.  _ As if he can do anything else. _

 

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, his voice low.

 

“Same as yesterday,” was his reply.  It didn't mean anything to Harry, but he didn't owe him a proper answer.  He didn't owe him anything. The boy had been living on borrowed time these last twelve years.  He didn't matter, not in the long run. This time next week, Harry's debt would be paid and Peter would be free.

 

“Bye then,” Harry ground out.  

 

Peter felt a surge of annoyance at the tone, as he often did around the Gryffindor boy.  He hadn't taken much notice of him during his years spent as Ron Weasley's pet rat, but now that he had Harry Potter's full attention...Peter could see what an insolent little  _ brat _ he was.  Worse than that spoiled James Potter.  James was at least funny. James was at least kind to Peter.  But Harry was  _ mean _ , his words were biting, his eyes were so accusing, every moment was spent calculating his next move against Peter.  But Peter gave him water, he neglected to put him into a complete hogtie, he even stopped cursing him after just three rounds of the Cruciatus, though he could have easily continued.  He showed Harry Potter more kindness than anyone else in his position would, and yet the boy was stubborn and  _ mean _ .

 

No matter.  Harry would be dead soon and his attitude would die with him.  And before he died, he would probably beg to come back to Peter.

 

Peter sneered at Harry.  “ _ Silencio. _ ”  He grabbed the cloak and swept out of the room, content that nobody would come to answer any cries for help while he was gone.

 

Hogsmeade was dreary in November.  It hadn't snowed yet, the skies were gray and bleak, the air freezing.  Peter had to fight a stiff breeze to hold the invisibility cloak in place.  He followed a witch into The Three Broomsticks and found a warm corner. On his way across the mostly empty room, he swiped a newspaper from a distracted wizard.  It was awkward to read the paper under the cloak while keeping an eye on the room. But at least it didn't stink like urine and sweat in here.

 

The disappearance of the Boy-Who-Lived had been front page news since Thursday morning, and Saturday's paper was no different.  Search parties were still combing through leads, though the article gave no specifics. Ministry officials made more of the same generic statements.  Nothing had changed. 

 

Peter read every word of the paper, looking for names.  It had been twelve years since he had spoken to anyone in the old crowd, and he couldn't exactly place an ad.   _ Gryffindor Traitor Looking for the Dark Lord.  Will Split Commission for the Boy-Who-Lived.  _ He had to remain with his prisoner, keep him alive and in line.  He knew without a doubt that the Dark Lord was out there somewhere, but he needed someone's help in finding him.  They could bring him here, to Harry, or Peter could bring Harry there. Wherever 'there' was. He didn't know who had ended up in Azkaban, who was still free and able to help, or even who would  _ want _ to help.  After all, if any former Death Eaters were still free, they were probably not looking to get involved in their old lives again.  Peter would go so far as to say many of the Death Eaters were rather happy that Harry had brought down their master. It simplified things.  He couldn't blame them.

 

Lucius Malfoy was a Ministry worker, but Peter would be willing to bet he wouldn't even score a meeting with the oily aristocrat.  The man was rather high up in Ministry affairs now; he didn't need the Dark Lord to fuel his ambition any longer. Severus Snape, Peter knew, was a Hogwarts professor.  He would be an idiot to trust anyone that close to Dumbledore. Avery, where was he? Peter had no clue. His name hadn't appeared in any section of the paper, but that wasn't unusual for the average citizen.  Bellatrix Lestrange scared the pants off Peter, and he was almost certain she was in Azkaban. Mulciber was mentioned in one of the articles about Sirius Black, and he was definitely in Azkaban now.

 

_ MANTICORE EXECUTION HELD FOR PRIVATE AUDIENCE _

 

_ A ferocious manticore, responsible for the deaths of two Greek wizards and one English witch over the past two years, was captured by Mathilda Grimblehawk last month.  Grimblehawk is an experienced investigator for the Beast Division of the  _ _ Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.  She went on to give key testimony during _ _ a week-long trial.  The manticore was sentenced to death by Ministry Officials, and an appeal was denied.   _

 

_ The execution took place Friday, 12 November.  A private audience was in attendance, including this reporter and several family members of the beast's victims.  Walden Macnair, the official Executioner for the Ministry of Magic, performed the gruesome task admirably. Grimblehawk, in a brief interview before the execution, stated that she hopes this ordeal can be put to rest now, and that the victims' families will find peace. _

 

Peter sat up straighter in his seat.  Macnair. He knew that name. He was once one of the most vicious Death Eaters in the Dark Lord's inner circle.  Macnair was infamous among the Death Eaters for his tactics. Peter sometimes doubted the man's professed ideology...it didn't seem to matter to Macnair what someone's blood status was, as long as their blood could be spilled.  But Macnair's loyalty was never in question, not for Peter. The man was evil through and through. He delighted in Death Eater raids. He was everything the Dark Lord could want in a loyal follower, and apparently clever enough to keep himself out of Azkaban.  He would be able to help.

 

Peter folded the newspaper as quietly as he could.  Lunchtime was nearing; the Three Broomsticks was beginning to fill up and he had to weave through a crowded dining area, back through the front door.  He actually bumped into a young couple on their way inside, but they were too wrapped up in their bickering to notice. Escaping the pub, he made his was across the small town to the post office.  He had a letter to send.

 

An hour later, Peter was satisfied.  It had taken him three tries to get the Imperius Curse to work on the old woman behind the counter.  But he had done it, and with another wizard's wand no less. He had never been as powerful as James or Sirius, nor as sharp as Remus or Lily, but he could hold his own.  He had held his own, without his friends by his side, in all of those Death Eater meetings. 

 

The Cruciatus used to leave him feeling sick after performing it on Muggles, but he soon learned the unique subtleties of dark magic.  He took comfort only in the fact that if he didn't do it, someone like Bellatrix Lestrange would take over, and her methods were always worse.  But then, through practice and dedication to the craft, he came to appreciate the rush of power in dark magic. He learned how to ride the wave, to keep breathing throughout the duration of the curse, to hold it longer and longer each time.  It took months of practice, months of telling himself the alternative for the Muggles was worse, and the alternative for him was death. And then he didn't dread the meetings as much. He always hated the violent raids, but the prisoners they took were good practice.  He always preferred them  _ after _ they had fallen into madness...it seemed less personal that way.  Like he was just hurting an animal that didn't understand. That was always better.  Almost...fun. The feeling that the dark curses left in him was no longer something he avoided.  He liked the rush. He liked the power. It was a power like nothing the other Marauders had ever experienced.  He felt  _ strong _ .

 

He had much less experience with the Imperius Curse, which was why it took so long to post a single letter without revealing himself and without paying anything.  But once he found success, that familiar feeling came rushing back into him. He swelled with pride, with power, with a slight giddiness. There was a bounce to his step as he returned to the Shack.

 

* * *

Harry pulled hopelessly against the ropes.  He wasn't even trying to escape, he only wanted to relieve the strain on his shoulders.  But no amount of twisting and pulling would help. His back was screaming, his shoulders were in agony, his arms were numb again.  Tears came unwittingly to his eyes but he blinked them back stubbornly. The man could be back at any moment and he would not find Harry crying.  Harry had been mortified when he found that that unmistakable stench was coming from himself, and he thought he would die of shame when it had happened a second time.  There was nothing he could do to stop it, but he still hated himself for it.

 

It was the fourth morning.  Harry had taken to counting the days with his teeth.  He was on his canine tooth now. Fourth from the back molars.  He couldn't make a calendar like he had in his old prison cell at the Dursleys, but he thought he would go mad if he couldn't at least count the days.  And so all morning, he focused on his tooth and the number “four.” The fourth morning. Light came through the cracks in the wall behind him in the mornings.  It was the only wall that bordered with the outside world. His back was to that wall and the cold wind cut through the cracks and into him like a knife, causing him to shiver like mad day and night.

 

Harry heard a noise downstairs and he instinctively opened his mouth to call for help.  Nothing but air came out, of course. The silencing charm saw to that. But it was always worth a shot, on the off-chance that it wasn't his captor coming up the stairs and on the off-chance that the charm had worn off.

 

The door opened and closed.  His invisible guard whispered a locking spell before removing Harry's dad's invisibility cloak and flinging it carelessly onto the bed.  The blurry figure appeared to be watching him, but Harry couldn't be sure.

 

“How was your morning, Harry?” the man asked jovially.  Harry watched him wearily as he approached. There was something different about him.  He seemed...taller. Perhaps louder, but it was hard to tell after spending the last few hours in silence.  “Oh right, sorry.  _ Finite incantatum _ .”  

 

There was a warm feeling in his throat for a moment and Harry knew his voice had been restored, but he still didn't answer.  It was a stupid question. 

 

“I had a great morning,” the man went on, unperturbed.  “Things are moving right along. You won't have to wait long now.  Aren't you uncomfortable?” Another stupid question. “Why don't you sleep?”  Harry stared at the man incredulously. Was he serious? How could anyone sleep like this?  He nodded off for a few minutes here and there, but the pain in his shoulders and back always dragged him back into consciousness.  The man raised his wand and Harry tensed.  _ “Imperio!”   _

 

The spell hit before Harry had time to do anything more than blink.  A wonderful weightless feeling took over and he sighed in relief. The pain was gone.  His mind was blissfully foggy. A voice came to him from far away. “Sleep,” it told him.  Harry closed his eyes and happily obliged.

 

When Harry woke, the morning light was back.  He jerked in surprise. Where did the afternoon go?  How much time passed? Was it the fifth morning now? 

 

The man seemed to have heard him from his lounging position on the bed.  “Good morning, Harry,” he greeted, sitting up. Harry stared at him in confusion.

 

“What happened?”

 

“What do you mean?” the man asked pleasantly.  Harry growled. He damn well knew what he meant.

 

“What did you do?!” he snapped.  “What happened?”

 

“You looked tired,” he answered, holding up his hands in innocence.  Harry glared. Whatever happened, he hadn't meant for it to happen. In the moment, he found he rather liked that kindly voice that urged him to sleep.  But looking back, he was furious. “I was only trying to help. I know you're uncomfortable. It's alright, it'll be over soon.” Harry kicked back uselessly, his whole body swinging.  

 

“Let me down from here!” he screeched, anger coursing through his veins.  He was just as tired now as he had been yesterday, his throat was parched, his stomach was twisted with hunger, and his body was still in so much pain.  “Let me  _ down!  _  Give me back my wand!”  He was sure that he sounded hysterical, but he didn't care.  The man's expression changed, but Harry couldn't see clearly enough to tell what he was feeling.  He didn't care though. He wanted out of here. He wanted his wand back, he wanted his father's cloak back, and he wanted to hex this little man into next year.

 

“You should be grateful,” the other wizard snapped.  “It takes great strength to perform the Imperius. I was only trying to help.”

 

“Shove it up your arse!” Harry seethed.

 

The man stood from the bed, closing the distance between them in a second.  Harry could see the wart on his cheek quivering in anger.

 

“I didn't have to do this for you!” he whined in a high-pitched voice.  Harry wanted to tear his throat out.

 

“Then don't!” he shot back.

 

“I suppose you don't want any water today, is that right?” he sneered nastily.  Harry met his eyes. He was completely and utterly parched, but he found he would rather die than take water from his own wand held in this man's hand.

 

“No, I don't,” he growled.  The man blinked. Harry thought he saw a flash of fear.  “You'd better get me to your master quickly then,” he added darkly, catching on.  “I won't last long without water.” 

 

They continued to stare at each other.  Harry wasn't a threat, but he knew he was obviously worth something to this man as long as he was alive.  His only advantage, then, was to hold himself hostage. He had almost escaped Wednesday morning. His captor was a slow duelist and a terrible shot.  If Harry could only score a little leeway, he might find a way out of here.

 

_ “Imperio,” _ the man hissed, gripping the wand with both hands.  That familiar feeling came over him again, lifting him out of his pain, plunging him into thoughtlessness.  “ _ Drink _ ,” he was commanded.  Such a kind voice. Full of nice suggestions.  Harry opened his mouth and drank cool, refreshing water.  The water kept coming, and he kept drinking. Water dribbled down his front, soaking his pajamas, and he continued to drink.  

 

Eventually, the fog lifted and Harry was forced back to reality.  His stomach was painfully full and his pajamas were heavy with water.  He was breathing harshly and his breath fogged in front of him. His soaked pajamas were cooling quickly in the freezing room and he began to shiver violently.  His whole body rattled and his teeth chattered.

 

“You smell bad,” the man smirked, glancing down knowingly.  

 

Harry snarled and spat at him.  A glob of saliva hit him on the nose and the man's face began twitching in anger.  He wiped at the spit furiously, dropping the wand. Harry desperately willed his wand to jump up into his own hands, but to no avail.  The man was positively fuming now, unable to speak. Harry smiled cheekily but then the man hurled a fist into his face. Harry was swinging and spinning wildly, his ears were ringing, his face was pulsating with the force of the punch.  He didn't see the man duck down and retrieve the dropped wand, but he knew what was coming next.

 

_ “Crucio!” _

 

Time and time again, the man threw that dreaded curse at him.  Each time seemed like an eternity, and then it would stop...the man would catch his breath, glare ferociously at him, sometimes he would laugh, and then throw it at him again.  Harry could do nothing but take it. He could only hang like a slab of meat in this frigid room and wait for a grown wizard to run out of steam...he felt like an animal.

 

Harry thought he was losing his mind.  Time didn't exist anymore, the ropes, the cold, the room didn't exist anymore...the pain just kept coming in unending, merciless waves.  He was hoarse now, his screams had dropped to an intermittent wailing and then to a whispered breath, choked with rattled sobs after it ended.  The man finally pocketed the wand and grinned at him, breathing heavily. Harry was twitching and shaking uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, painful spasms wracked his body, and he tasted blood.  He had thrown up at some point: watery, yellow bile caked his mouth and the front of his shirt. The room was quiet, the only sounds coming from the creaking beam above him, his own weak whimpers, and his captor's breathing.

 

“Do you...do you want to sleep now, Harry?” the man gasped.

 

Harry nodded immediately, his eyes screwed shut as his body continued to jerk and twitch randomly.  There was an agonizingly long pause as the man gathered his strength.

 

_ “Imperio.” _

 

And there was peace.


	2. Ghost Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More torture and angst, but also a sandwich and Padfoot!

**Monday, November 15th**

 

Hermione took another steadying breath, looked both ways down the corridor, then eased her way through the panel of the one-eyed witch statue by the Defense classroom.  Fred helped her down the narrow chute and they joined Ron and George in the tunnel.

 

“It's about a half hour walk from here to Honeyduke's,” George informed them.  Ron plowed ahead with a lit wand.

 

“How did you find this passageway?” Hermione asked curiously, trying to keep her mind off how they would get out of the cellar of Honeyduke's without being caught.

 

“Curiosity killed the cat, Granger,” Fred quipped lightly.

 

“And satisfaction brought it back,” she replied.  He snorted.

 

“Did you bring money?” George called over his shoulder.

 

“Yes—who are we paying off exactly?” she inquired.

 

“'Paying off'?  Don't be so grim.  The owners of Honeyduke's know about us and this passageway.  They _appreciate_ _our_ _business_.”

 

“We're not going for snacks!” Ron seethed, whirling around and bringing their march to a sudden stop.  “We're looking for Harry!”

 

“Oof!” Something crashed into hard into Hermione's back and she lost her balance, tipping forward into Fred.  Hermione lit her wand and spun, her heart pounding. “...Neville?!”

 

The slightly pudgy boy blinked up at her, shielding his eyes from the light of her wand.  “Er, hi...” he said uneasily.

 

“What are  _ you _ doing here?” cried Ron.  “Come to stop us, have you?”  Hermione recalled their first year, when Neville had tried to block them from leaving Gryffindor tower and losing more points.  But Neville shook his head.

 

“N-no!  I want to help!” he pleaded.  Ron looked skeptical and Hermione shushed him.

 

“Thank you, Neville,” she said, reaching for his hand reassuringly.  “We need all the help we can get.” As long as he didn't trip into a dementor at Hogsmeade and bring the whole Hogwarts staff down on them...  Ron huffed and continued down the tunnel, saying nothing more.

 

“So where are we going exactly?” Neville asked after a few minutes.

 

“This passageway leads to Hogsmeade,” she began.  “The search for Harry is limited to the Forbidden Forest for now, that's where Professor Lupin seems to think Black would go.  We think they should broaden the search, ask the villagers if they've seen anything unusual.”

 

“How does Professor Lupin know where B-Black might go?”

 

Hermione shrugged.  “Apparently he knew Black in school.”

 

“Wouldn't he just Apparate away with Harry as soon as they were past the wards?” Neville asked.  Ron stiffened up ahead, but didn't turn around.

 

“He could,” she reasoned.  “But Apparition is tricky, even with your own wand.  He's using Harry's wand, right? If it's a bad fit for him, it stands to reason that he might be forced to travel on foot or risk splinching himself.  Not to mention, he's likely in bad shape after twelve years in Azkaban. I suspect he'll lie low for a while yet before he goes anywhere.”  _ He'll stay in the area until he's finished with Harry _ , she couldn't help but think.

 

When they arrived in Honeyduke's cellar, they could hear quiet conversation coming from upstairs.  One of the twins replaced the trapdoor while the other led the way up a rickety staircase and listened at the door.  When he deemed the coast to be clear, he strolled through the door confidently.

 

They came out behind the counter.  The store was just as she remembered it, but rather empty of customers.  Only a few people puttered about unenthusiastically, a sharp change from the crowd of eager Hogwarts students that had filled the store to the brim two weeks ago.  The twins greeted the clerk heartily, surprising the man, though he seemed to recover quickly enough. Hermione recalled her task and grabbed a handful of the nearby Cockroach Clusters.  Ron pulled a box of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and tossed it carelessly on the counter.

 

“Just these, thanks,” Hermione said, digging through her pockets for money.  She barely remembered to gather her change from the clerk before their group swept through the front door, out onto the street.

 

“Way to seem natural, you two,” one of the twins stage-whispered.

 

“Stow it,” Ron retorted.

 

“Wait—where's the other one?” Neville asked suddenly.  Hermione looked around. They were missing a twin.

 

“Not to worry,” Fred or George said, steering them away from the shop.  “Fred's questioning the clerk, as planned. C'mon, let's hit up Three Broomsticks.”  Ron opened his mouth to argue but George cut him off. “All the best gossips do their gossiping there, trust me.”

 

The Three Broomsticks was a welcome reprieve from the biting cold of the mid-November air.  Hermione was reminded once again that Harry would only have his pajamas to keep him warm. She tried to remember if he typically wore socks to bed or if he went without.

 

“Give us a round, Madam Rosmerta,” George called out, sending the barmaid a charming smile.  She rolled her eyes at the Hogwarts students and obliged. Hermione handed over a stack of coins.

 

“What are you lot doing out of school on a Monday?” she chuckled.  “I could have the headmaster here in a minute if I've a mind to.” Neville squeaked and she laughed, waving away the idle threat.  “Not that I'd turn away paying customers. Business is bad enough with those blasted dementors floating about.”

 

“Have they had any luck yet?” George asked conversationally.  Rosmerta shook her head. “You know, Sirius Black broke into Hogwarts just two weeks ago.”  Ron gripped his Butterbeer tightly.

 

“So I've heard...” she replied slowly.  “And again last Tuesday, yeah?” George nodded solemnly.

 

“It would appear so,” he sighed.  “Whole school's down about it. I thought I'd bring these Gryffindors out to Hogsmeade.  You know, cheer them up.”

 

“Oh dear,” she said and gazed at them sadly.  “Did you know him? The Potter boy?”

 

Ron slammed his glass on the table.  “He's not dead!” he growled.

 

“I didn’t say—”

 

“You said  _ did _ we know him!” Ron went on.  “He's not dead!” His voice was low but Hermione knew an explosion was coming.  They would be sent back to Hogwarts in a matter of minutes. She put a hand on his elbow, trying to calm him.

 

“Sorry about him,” George cut in hastily, distracting Rosmerta.  “Had a run-in with a dementor earlier. Still a bit shaken up.” She nodded knowingly.

 

“Next one's on the house, love,” she said kindly to Ron.  Hermione tensed, but Ron remained silent, glaring down at the table.

 

“So they've been making their usual rounds, have they?” George continued.  “The dementors?”

 

“Oh yes,” she answered.  “For the most part. We all avoid them much as we can, of course.  Don't want to be caught in the open with one of those coming down the path.  Addler over there—” she pointed in the direction of a middle-aged wizard at a low table in the middle of the room, “—had to take cover by the Shrieking Shack this weekend when a pair of dementors crossed his path down on Wormwood Ave.  Said it weren't much better there though, what with the Shack being haunted.”

 

“H-haunted?” Neville asked, trembling.

 

Rosmerta nodded, eyes widening theatrically.  “Ooh yes... People have heard all sorts of things going on in that Shack for years, see.  Sensible folk won't go near it. I suppose it's only Hogwarts students like yourselves going to visit!  Daring each other to get closer and whatnot. But you'll have to excuse me, I should get back to work...”  She drifted away, greeting a pair of customers just entering the pub.

 

George watched her leave, looking pensive.  “I've been to the Shack,” he said lowly. “Not inside, mind,” he reassured Neville.  “There's a high gate around it. Couldn't see a way in, matter of fact. No door, not in the front anyway.  An' all the windows are boarded up. Certainly  _ looks _ haunted,” he chuckled mirthlessly.  He took a sip of his drink before seeming to arrive at a decision.  He stood abruptly, crossed the room, and plopped down into the empty seat next to Addler.  The others shared a look, then followed cautiously.

 

“...reason they call it the  _ Shrieking _ Shack, mind you,” the wizard was telling George eagerly.  Hermione's stomach twisted as she joined them. The wizard looked up and seemed to revel in the attention of his audience while he nursed a strong drink.  “It's as haunted as ever, everything they say is true.”

 

“What do they say?” asked George conspiratorially.

 

“You can hear screams in the night, they say,” Addler went on.  “Not every night, but often enough. Of course, when I was there, it was middle o' the afternoon.”

 

“And you heard something?  This weekend?” Ron asked desperately.  Addler mistook his tone and nodded with a smile.

 

“Sure did.  Screams. Shrieks, just like they said.”  Hermione's heart plummeted and her hands began to shake.  A feeling she had never experienced began to wash over her, as if her blood was rapidly being replaced with oil.  “I couldn't stomach it for long,” he went on. “It was awful, just awful. Sounded downright other-worldly. Plus I think one of them dementors was closing in on me, ‘cause it got real cold.  So I took off t'other side, came out on Bloxam Street. Wouldn't you know it, I ran into another dementor there! They're everywhere!” he laughed, but no one joined him. Addler fell quiet and began to look uncomfortable, and then the door opened and their attention was diverted.

 

“There you are!” Fred sighed, dragging a chair up to join them.  But just as he sat, George stood.

 

“Come on,” he said gravely.  “We're leaving.” Hermione pushed her Butterbeer away with clammy hands, rising numbly to follow the others outside and barely registering Addler's warnings as they left.

 

The Shack stood just along the border to the Hogwarts grounds.  It was a tall, dilapidated structure, leaning forward on its foundation and towering above the overgrown yard.  A high iron fence surrounded it on all four sides and there was no gate to allow entry, but the bars were perhaps wide enough for a first year to slip through.  Through the fence, Hermione saw that indeed there was no discernible front door to the Shack, just as George said. They listened with bated breath. Hours seemed to pass, but there was only silence.

 

“How do we get inside?” Hermione finally whispered, trying desperately to keep her voice from shaking.  Neville looked at her in alarm. Ron, however, had his wand out.

 

“If he's in there,” cautioned George, “that means Black is in there, too.”

 

“And we can't take him by ourselves,” Fred finished.

 

“If that bloke was right,” murmured Ron, “Harry doesn't have much time.  We've got to get to him.”

 

Hermione bit her lip.  “Ron,” she said, her voice tight.  “We need to go for help.”

 

“If we go in there,” Fred went on gruffly, “Black will kill us all and kill Harry too.”

 

“He offed thirteen people with a single curse,” said George, pale beneath his freckles.  Ron glared up at the Shrieking Shack, spinning his wand in his fingers.

 

“HARRY!” he screamed suddenly, watching the old house expectantly.  The twins grabbed the younger three and dragged them behind some nearby shrubs.

 

“Ron, you berk!  Are you mad?!” one of them hissed.

 

“You’ll tip him off!” said the other.  Ron shrugged out of their grip, stood, and cupped his hands around his mouth.

 

“HA—”

 

“ _ Silencio! _ ” Hermione cried, cutting him off.  He reared on her and began to swear up a storm, albeit silently.  Neville moaned, staring at the house in fear.

 

“Do you see anything?” one of the twins asked nervously, peeking up at the house through the bushes.

 

“...no.”

 

“Let's get out of here.”

 

* * *

"Professor Lupin!"

 

Remus looked up and only just managed to cover the map with another piece of parchment before a small hoard of Gryffindors burst through his office door, gasping for breath.

 

"Can I help you, Mr. Weasley?"  Ron looked ready for battle. Remus had never seen the twins so grim, Neville appeared on the verge of fainting, and Hermione had a calculating look about her.

 

"We've found Harry!" Ron cried.  Remus leapt to his feet, wand in hand, and was already striding toward the door when Hermione stopped him.

 

"W-wait!" she said, slightly alarmed.  "We only  _ think _ we've found him, it could be nothing!  Or worse, it could be a trap!"

 

"He's in there, Hermione!  You heard what that bloke said!"

 

"We don't know for certain, and we haven't seen or heard anything for ourselves!"

 

Remus reigned in his flaring temper.  "Please," he took a breath. "Explain."

 

They relayed their story to him.  He was an attentive audience and didn't speak for a full minute after they had finished.  The Shrieking Shack. Remus hardly imagined Black would consider that rickety house to be the most strategic place to bring Harry.  It was barely outside of Hogwarts grounds, and how could Black know that Remus wouldn't still be using it every month? Unless he didn't realize that his old friend was a Hogwarts professor...  Then he would assume the Shack to be in no danger of visitors. And Remus knew better than anyone that with a name like Shrieking Shack, any sounds of distress would be overlooked by the villagers...

 

He felt nauseous.

 

"Return to Gryffindor tower," he instructed.  The students began to protest. "The sooner  _ you _ go, the sooner  _ I _ go."  The twins nodded solemnly and led the others away.  Remus waited for them to disappear down the corridor and then bolted from his office.

 

“In a hurry?” came an oily greeting as he rounded the corner.

 

“Out of the way,” he said shortly, attempting to sidestep the Potions Master.  Snape blocked his path.

 

“The headmaster requests your presence at our meeting,” he insisted.  “You’re late.”

 

“I’m busy,” Remus argued.  Snape smirked.

 

“It’s interesting that you find yourself busy at a time like this,” he said casually.  “There has been progress in our search.”

 

Remus froze.  “Progress?”

 

“Would you care to join the meeting, Lupin?  Or are you too  _ busy _ ?”  Remus bared his teeth and followed Snape to the staff room.  Progress. Real progress. As much as it made his stomach churn, the rumors of the Shack would have to wait.

 

* * *

“Welcome,” Dumbledore greeted them as they took their seats.  Hogwarts staff, three Ministry Aurors, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were waiting impatiently for them at the long table.

 

“There’s been progress, sir?” Remus demanded.

 

“We found a campsite,” explained Moody.  “In a cave, base of the mountain on the east side of the forest.  Recently used. More recently deserted.” Remus swallowed.

 

“Did you find any evidence to suggest - ”

 

“We recovered black hair,” Kingsley answered.  “Some of it was very long, matching Black's description.  There’s a good chance it was his campsite.”

 

“‘Some of it’?” Remus pressed.

 

“And some of it was much shorter, softer,” Tonks spoke up.  She met his gaze with serious brown eyes. “Clumps of it.  _ Could _ be Harry’s, but more likely from an animal.”  His stomach seemed determined to turn itself inside out.  She pulled a small wad of fabric out of her pocket, unfolding it to reveal a clump of black hair, which was matted and filthy.  “Hagrid, you teach Care of Magical Creatures, right? Could you...?”

 

Hagrid took the swatch of fabric and examined the hair up close, prodding it, picking it up, rubbing it between his fingers.  He coughed to clear his throat. 

 

“Animal,” he said gruffly, placing it gingerly on the table.  His huge hand lingered over the little swatch of fabric and he appeared lost in thought.

 

Dumbledore nodded sagely but said nothing.  Bitter disappointment hung in the air. And fear.  The atmosphere was suffocating.

 

“There was something else,” said Tonks, breaking the silence.  “It appears the fire was made by hand. Built and lit without magic.”  Confused glances were shared.

 

“Why bother?” Mrs. Weasley asked.  “Doesn’t he have Harry’s wand?”

 

Tonks shrugged.  “We assumed he did, since the wand went missing too.  Or it could simply mean that Black can’t use Harry’s wand - it could be too unstable for him.  Professor Lupin,” she turned to him. “Do you remember what type of wand Black used before Azkaban?”

 

“Dragon heartstring,” he answered immediately.  “Dogwood. Twelve inches.”

 

Tonks looked to Dumbledore, who seemed to consider this information carefully.

 

“I am no expert on wands,” he said.  “Harry’s wand is made of holly and contains a phoenix feather core.  An unusual combination, Mr. Ollivander informed me, but it wouldn’t necessarily indicate a particularly temperamental wand for anyone else…  We can only hope that Black is finding it a challenge to master.” 

 

“What a relief!” Mrs. Weasley sighed happily.  Several others shared her sentiment and Remus felt a flicker of optimism.

 

“There are others ways,” Moody barked, cutting the moment short.  “Someone like Black doesn’t need a wand to do damage. He was always creative.”  The room fell silent as a tomb. “The campsite appeared to have been used for some time,” the Auror continued.  “But he’ll know by now that we’ve discovered it. We’ll station Tonks nearby for a few days, but he won’t return if there's any sense left in his head.”

 

“There are similar caves in the area,” Sprout suggested.

 

“So far, this is the only one that’s had any trace but we’ll watch the others as well.  ”

 

“We’re narrowing our search to the east side of the forest,” said Kingsley.  “We’ll continue to work in shifts….”

 

The meeting continued in that manner for another hour.  Remus and Tonks were assigned the first superveillance shift on the cave.  Remus’s mind was a million miles away, however: he was still thinking about the animal hair.  Black would obviously use his dog form to move around more freely, he knew that. He couldn’t say precisely why he had continued to keep the Marauders' most important secret in such dire circumstances.  He certainly didn’t want to disappoint Albus and Minerva. To inform his childhood heroes that he had betrayed them, all those years ago; that he had led his three closest friends to attempt the dangerous animagus transformation; that he had accepted Dumbledore’s gracious offer for an education and then put student lives at risk every month.  It would shatter his heart to have to admit that.

 

But Harry’s life was on the line now.  Black was using his animagus form to elude capture, and the longer this went on, the worse it would be for Harry.  Perhaps it was already too late...they had found no trace of Harry in the cave.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, the voices of the others washing over him in a haze, but he couldn’t force the words out of his mouth.  The bright and smiling face of his old friend was seared into his mind's eye. From playing pranks and going on adventures in the forest, how had it come to this?  A man-hunt for his oldest and closest friend. A rescue mission for their little Prongslet. 

 

‘ _ He was always creative.’   _

 

Remus felt dizzy.  The room was too hot.  He could hardly breathe.  He caught Dumbledore’s eye, the man was watching him unblinkingly.  Remus shook his head, not knowing what he was trying to communicate with the gesture.  He abruptly stood and fled the room. 

 

Tonks would have a hell of a time finding him for their first surveillance shift.

 

* * *

 

 

**Saturday, November 20th**

 

The cupboard under the stairs was the innermost part of Number Four, Privet Drive.  It was cramped and dark, but also well insulated and warm. Christmases spent with the Dursleys, he could just curl up on his cot and sleep the day away while they enjoyed family time without him.  Harry was hard-pressed to understand now what was so terrible about life before Hogwarts. He desperately wished he could at least  _ smell _ a Christmas roast through the cupboard door again.  There wasn’t enough room to stand in the cupboard, much less to hang from the ceiling for an eternity.

 

He had lost count of the days.  Drifting in and out of consciousness, he couldn’t say he was sleeping exactly.  He had no hope of tracking the sunlight anymore. It seemed that every time he closed his eyes, every time he blinked, he opened them again to find the sun in a totally different position.

 

The twisting pain in his stomach was perhaps worse than anything else, except for the suffering that the ' _ crucio' _ spell inflicted.  The hunger pangs were so intense they managed to blur the endless pain in his shoulders and back.  Harry had long since chewed through the collar in his flannel pajama shirt, trying to fill his stomach with anything at all.  Nothing helped - not even the sips of water the man treated him to occasionally, though Harry liked to imagine it was a hearty soup.

 

He couldn’t feel his feet anymore, that was a plus.  Burning pain had started in his exposed toes and then spread across each foot until everything became numb.  It could have been frostbite, or maybe his feet had fallen off altogether. Harry couldn’t tell anymore. He didn’t much care.  Numb was better.

 

His captor was growing increasingly agitated and Harry was ignored for the most part.  No more ' _ crucio.' _  No more forced water.  But when Harry cared to watch, he would see the man pacing the room, muttering to himself, biting his disgusting nails to the point of bleeding.  He was nervous, that much was clear, and his nerves were only getting worse.

 

“He’ll come, he’ll come, he’ll come, he’ll be here,” was his mantra now.  Harry blinked owlishly at him.  _ Who?  Black? _

 

Harry hadn't even realized he had spoken out loud until the man was inches from his face.

 

_ "Why would Black come here?!" _ he screeched.  Harry flinched away from the sound, having heard nothing above a whisper for a long time.  "Did you see him?"

 

Harry shook his head, confused.  The man had been here with him every time he was awake.  If Black had popped in for a visit, wouldn't he have noticed?

 

"I can't see anything," he deadpanned.  The man frowned, and then smiled in understanding and patted his face with a soft hand.  Harry pulled away weakly. The man's touch made his skin crawl and his cheek was still throbbing from that blow the other day...or last year, he couldn't be sure.  "Who's coming?" Harry ventured. His throat was scratchy and irritated, so he spoke softly to curtail the coughing.

 

"Wouldn't you like to know," the man sneered.

 

_ That's why I asked, you talking nappy. _  "Voldemort?"  

 

The man recoiled as if struck, his eyes widening in fear and darting around the room.  Harry would have laughed if he weren't strung up like poultry.

 

"Don't you d-dare say his n-name!" his captor stammered.

 

_ Voldemort!  Voldemort! Voldemort!   _ "Is he coming here?"

 

"No!" the man answered, visibly shaken.  "Macnair. Another Death Eater."

 

"Oh," said Harry simply.  He waited for more information but was offered none.  The man returned to pacing. "...what's a Death Eater?"

 

"A devoted follower of the Dark Lord," he replied.  Harry thought he would have taken more pride in the statement, but he rather seemed to shrink as he said it.

 

"You mean a servant?" he probed, smirking.

 

"Yes," was the answer.  Harry frowned...it wasn't fun if he didn't take the bait.

 

"I've met him, you know," he tried again.

 

The man stared blankly.  "You've met...you've met Macnair?"

 

Harry closed his eyes briefly against the barrage of stupid.  "No. I've met Voldemort."

 

"Don't say the name!" the wizard hissed, backing up a step.

 

"Met him twice.  Three times, if you count when I was a baby.  But you'd know about that, I suppose..." Harry trailed off.  He was still unclear on his captor's history and the connection he had with the Potter family.  He gathered that he'd been close with his parents, and that he had something to do with Voldemort showing up at Godric's Hollow that night.  But beyond those facts, he knew nothing. He didn't even know his name.

 

"Y-yes," the man stuttered, pausing.  "I remember...you three went chasing after the Stone, and then last year you went after Ginny.  They hardly spoke of anything else at the Burrow for a while." He paused. Harry wondered vaguely when this wizard had popped by the Burrow, but it was hard to press the matter when his stomach was eating itself.  "You've spoken to him?" the man asked.

 

Harry nodded, the movement jarring his back and knocking the air out of him.  He hoped his face remained aloof. "Not very happy with me at all," he admitted casually on borrowed breath.  "Not after I refused his offer."

 

"His offer?" the man stepped closer.

 

"Yeah..." Harry lingered on the word, appearing as though he would finish the sentence, but then abruptly said:  "I don't suppose there's anything to eat?" He held his breath, feeling as if his entire existence hung in the balance.  It probably did.

 

"...er, food?" he blinked.  Harry nodded again, trying to keep the desperation from his face.  "Well, I suppose...but it's been a week now, he should be arriving any time now..."  Harry felt his heart sink; it had been a long shot anyway. "But even after he arrives, it'll be a while yet before we get you to the Dark Lord.  I suppose it would be...yes, it would be prudent to keep you fed. Just enough though. No indulging!" The man actually wagged a finger at him, as if he were a young child caught with sweets before dinner.  

 

Harry quickly agreed and the man left the room without another word.  He could hardly believe his luck. Why hadn't he tried this before? He thought back on what the man had said.  One week since he had sent word to this Macnair fellow. That was no doubt the day he had returned from his errands in a remarkably good mood, the day he had first used the Imperius on Harry.  That had been the fourth day, he recalled, his tongue automatically finding his canine tooth. Which meant that this morning marked the eleventh day. 

 

His mind was reeling.  Eleven days. It had been a week and a half since he was stolen out of Hogwarts by a yet-to-be-named Death Eater.  The Potions essay sitting in his backpack should have been turned in, graded, and returned by now, and a new essay assigned in its place.  He hoped Neville had done alright. They had worked together on the assignment. It was probably just as well that he didn't turn his in...the essays were so similar, Snape no doubt would have failed them both for cheating.

 

The man - the Death Eater - returned at long last with a paper sack.  Harry could instantly smell the food inside the sack and his mouth began watering.  He was nearly delirious by the time he had taken out half a sandwich, the toasted bread steaming in the frigid air.  He held it six inches away from his face.

 

Harry glanced at him, panic beginning to set in.  He hadn't changed his mind, had he? The man was an arse, but he was more prone to losing his temper than resorting to outright sadistic torment.  Right?

 

"I won't make you beg for this, Harry," he said, leering.  "But I think  _ thanks _ is in order."  Harry's gaze was locked on the blurry image of the sandwich.  Some sort of meat between two pieces of wheat bread, cheese and lettuce sticking out over the edges.  He had never seen anything so beautiful. It was mesmerizing. He would gladly commission Dean for a painting of it so he could admire it long after devouring it.

 

"Thank you," he said earnestly, leaning forward as far as he could.  But he couldn't reach it. He had never wanted anything more in his life than this blasted sandwich, and it was so  _ close _ …

 

"Because I didn't have to share my lunch with you, you know," the man went on.  Harry nodded, unwelcome tears coming to his eyes as the sandwich remained just out of reach.  It wasn't fair. He wasn't even asking to come down. He just wanted some food. "And I hope you don't think that I've been cruel to you.  I've always taken my meals outside. I could have teased you. But I didn't!" he said brightly. The sandwich was no closer and Harry thought his pounding heart might actually stop if this game didn't end.

 

"Please..." he whispered faintly, closing his eyes against the tears.

 

The man became utterly still.  "...what did you say?" he asked disbelievingly.

 

_ "....p-please!" _ Harry moaned, more loudly this time.  His throat was tighter than ever. He opened his eyes to see the man gaping at him.  Then a smile spread across his warty cheeks and he brought the blessed sandwich in. Harry sank his teeth into it, truly grateful.  He didn't even notice when the tears fell.

 

* * *

But Peter noticed.

 

* * *

Harry fell asleep after lunch.  Lunch. What a beautiful word. He woke up feeling slightly more like himself and much less like an animal.  He had eaten the entire half-sandwich that was offered. He didn't even mind that the man's grubby fingers had been all over it.  Then he had promptly fallen asleep, without the aid of the Imperius.

 

Then he was awake and the man was snoring on the bed, huddled under the invisibility cloak for warmth.  Harry listened while pulling down on his arms, trying miserably to shift his weight. It was the first time he'd been able to lift himself more than an inch in quite a long time, and he was surprised when his right wrist slipped slightly within the coil of ropes.  He looked up but couldn't see what had changed. He wriggled his right wrist and found just enough slack to twist it back and forth, although his skin stretched painfully against the ropes. He pulled his left wrist, hard. Incredibly, it slowly began to slip down as well.

 

Harry returned his gaze to the bed, though there was nothing there to observe.  The snores continued, but the cloak obscured his captor.

 

Gritting his teeth, he began to twist and pull.  It was slow, agonizing work, and he was sure he was skinning himself thoroughly.  He was encouraged when he felt cool air reach his forearms through the thinning fabric of his pajamas:  the area just above his elbows, which had been covered by the rope coils for the past eleven days, was now exposed.  It seemed to take hours, but it became marginally easier as he made more progress.

 

He was nearly free now.  He was swaying several inches closer to the ground and only his hands remained trapped.  He grunted and squirmed, trying to ease through the final three loops, which were each the size of his wrists and no larger.  He contorted his thumbs and scrunched his face, using all of his weight and strength to pull down without mercy. Suddenly something gave and he slipped free, but his feet - which were still trapped by a length of rope that was tied to the beam above him - jerked back and he slammed face-first onto the cold floor.

 

Warm blood gushed out of his stinging nose and his feet remained suspended about ten inches in the air behind him.  He couldn’t think past the agony in his shoulders and back. His arms remained outstretched and for a horrifying moment, he thought he would never be able to pull them back down to his sides.  He didn’t seem to have much control over his arms and his limbs felt unnaturally long. With great effort and after much popping and cracking, he managed to turn onto his back and wrench his arms down.  Circulation began to restore to his fingers. The pain was excruciating and left him whimpering and gasping for air, but his arms were free and he was finally touching the ground. 

 

He glanced up at the bed, suddenly aware of how much noise he was making.  He didn’t hear anything at first...then the snores returned.

 

Harry had never realized how many muscles it took to sit up until he forced himself into an upright position and reached for his still-tied feet.  His fingers were stiff and discolored, but luckily the rope was simply looped around his feet rather than knotted. He pulled more slack into the loop and then clumsily removed his numb feet, letting them fall limply to the floor with a gentle  _ thud _ .

 

The man continued to snore.  Harry considered the ramifications of leaving his wand and his father’s cloak here with a Death Eater.  He would never see them again, that was for sure. And the door was almost certainly sealed shut. He would need to retrieve his wand to escape the room.

 

He couldn’t seem to get his feet to cooperate, so he crawled to the bed on all fours.  His arms shook violently with the effort, every movement hard-won, and he suddenly found it impossible that he had been playing Quidditch just a couple weeks ago.  He grasped the mattress and peaked over the edge, seeing nothing but an empty lump. With a trembling hand, he reached out until he felt the familiar, silky fabric of the cloak, then pulled back.  The man’s face was revealed, turned away from him. 

 

Harry thought he might lose his precious lunch and he prayed the man would keep snoring.  He pulled the cloak down gradually until his torso came into view, but then the cloak snagged and he couldn’t pull anymore.  Harry's rising hope turned sour. James Potter's one and only family heirloom was caught under this idiot's flabby buttocks! Harry tugged but was unable to free it.  The man snorted, his eyes fluttered, and Harry thought all was lost...but then the snores returned again. He dropped the cloak, deciding not to push his luck.

 

Harry’s wand was poking out of a threadbare pocket, however, and he eased it out, slowly, gently, until it was free.  Taking his own wand in hand filled him with a warmth and comfort he had never known, not even when he first got the wand in Ollivander's shop, but he didn’t have time to relish it.  He reluctantly tore himself away from the cloak and made for the door.

 

“ _ Alohomora, _ ” he whispered.  He didn’t bother to close door behind him when he left.  It was no use trying to mislead his captor; the head-start he had would remain only so long as the man slept.

 

He eased his way down the stairs on his bottom, heart pounding in his chest with each creak of the old wooden planks.  He made it to the ground level and cast  _ Lumos _ , but couldn’t find any door-shaped blurs on the surrounding walls.  He sat in a tiny, dim parlor. To the left, something that may have passed for a kitchen.  To the right, what could have been a drawing room with a boarded up fireplace and a few broken pieces of furniture.

 

A chilly draft cut into the room and Harry followed it.  He passed through the archway to the right and reached the far wall, where there was a window.  Instead of glass, the window was covered by haphazard planks of wood, much like the fireplace. There was no light coming through the cracks:  it was night. He grabbed a board and heaved himself up, standing on unstable feet. He yanked at the board with stiff fingers, throwing his weight back.  It creaked but wouldn’t budge. He pulled on the surrounding planks, hoping to have better luck. He had nearly given up until he wrenched desperately on a board running vertically along the side of the window and it gave way easily.  He tumbled back, dropping the board to the ground where it clattered loudly. 

 

That was it.  The Death Eater upstairs couldn’t possibly sleep through all that racket.  Harry scrambled up, tripping over his numb feet and nearly braining himself on the window.  He crammed his way through the gap that the board had revealed. First one leg, then an arm, then his shoulder...he turned his head this way and that, trying to fit.  As he was shifting his hips and preparing to pull the other leg through, he heard a noise from just within the room. With a panicked lunge, he scraped the rest of his battered body from the window and stumbled onto the icy ground outside.

 

* * *

The Whomping Willow was the same as ever, as was the knot in the tree trunk that froze its murderous branches.  Remus scrambled through the hole and hurried through the tunnel. The twins had confronted him this morning about the Shrieking Shack and he admitted to them that he had been busy pursuing another lead.  They weren’t pleased, to say the least, and neither was he. Black was obviously gone from the cave and yet every spare minute since Monday evening had been wasted watching that stupid cave with Tonks. It was Saturday now.  He had scarfed down his dinner and then fled the castle. He wasn’t sure how valuable of a lead the Shack would be, given that the information had come from a man in Hogsmeade who thought it appropriate to drink Firewhiskey in the company of schoolchildren on a Monday afternoon.  But the complex cave system had yielded nothing and Remus was restless.

 

He reached the trapdoor in the floor of the Shack and paused to catch his breath.  He should  _ not _ have come alone.  He should have brought this lead to Dumbledore’s attention during Monday’s meeting.   But he didn't, and now he was going alone into this old familiar territory.

 

There was a loud clattering sound from the floorboards above and Remus whipped out his wand, hardly daring to breathe.  He waited, listening. Silence. Remus pressed a hand on the trapdoor above his head and pushed. Peering through the crack, he couldn’t see anything in the nearly pitch-black room.  He eased the trapdoor all the way open and heaved himself up into the parlor. As he stood, the trapdoor suddenly slipped out of his grasp and clanged shut. He lit his wand quickly and found himself facing the stairs.  He spun around - did he hear something moving? - and saw nothing but a sliver of exposed sky by the boarded-up window. The sun had set and the sky was nearly black. 

 

“ _ Accio _ invisibility cloak,” he tried.  Nothing at first, and then a wad of fabric hit him in the back of the head.  It came from upstairs.

 

His mind was on fire.  Sparks were flying from his wand tip.  Black was around the corner and Remus wanted nothing more than to tear him limb from limb.  He would bring Harry back, and never again would he let James and Lily's son out of his sight.  He barreled up the stairs to the all too familiar bedroom and burst through the half-open door, sending it careening into the wall.  His wand was at the ready but no one was in the room. No boy. No man. No dog.

 

Remus brightened the light emitting from his wand, scanning the room quickly, checking quickly under the bed.  Black wouldn’t leave the cloak behind. Time was of the essence. A mess of rope dangled from the ceiling between the bed and the far wall:  it was tied to the beam above, swaying gently. Remus crossed the room, eyes wary, and ran his fingers along the rope coils. Some of it was warm, despite the chill in the air.  Images flashed through his mind as he thought of what the rope might have been used for, and his temper flared. He rounded on the bed, reaching a hand out and feeling around on the lumpy mattress.  It was warm, too. Remus flattened himself on the floor and looked under the bed again, a curse on the tip of his tongue. But only a rat scurried away from his wand-light and he stood, suppressing a growl of frustration.

 

What was he missing?  The cloak came from upstairs and this room was recently used.  Dust motes were still moving around the bed. But no one was here.  Remus thundered back to the stairs, observing a strange pattern of disturbed dust on each step.  As if something had been dragged up or down the stairs recently. Handprints scattered here and there in the pattern, too small to be Black's.  Several tracks of footprints, too large to be Harry’s, ran between the trapdoor and the staircase. Someone had definitely been using the Shack.

 

Remus reached the bottom of the stairs and continued forward.  As he stared expectantly into the dark corners of the drawing room, his foot kicked something and sent it clattering across the room.  It was a plank of wood, like those used to board up the windows, and that clattering noise was the same sound he had heard earlier in the tunnel…

 

His gaze darted up to the window.  A narrow slit, the sky outside barely exposed.  The opening was just wide enough for a thin child to fit through.  Perhaps wide enough for a starved dog to follow.

 

* * *

  
  


Wormtail took the stairs too quickly and tumbled all the way down.  Lupin was heading for the window, where a board had been pried loose, no doubt by the brat.  Wormtail darted across the room and scuttled through a tiny hole that was low to the ground while Lupin dealt with the window.  He was halfway across the little garden by the time Lupin made it out. Wormtail could just barely make out the scent of the boy - he was grateful now that the brat had been left to soak in his own urine since last Tuesday, it would certainly make tracking him easier.  He had no trouble with the iron fence that surrounded the yard and Lupin, just a few paces behind him now, simply Apparated to the other side.

 

Wormtail turned right.  Lupin hesitated, then turned left.

 

It wasn't difficult to find the boy, but approaching was another matter.  He was unconscious in the middle of the street, a full block from the Shack.  A dementor hovered over him. It was dusk and Wormtail counted himself lucky that no one in Hogsmeade ventured out after sunset.  The boy's wand was clutched tightly in his hand, even in unconsciousness, and Wormtail had to bite and struggle to pry it loose. He retreated, awkwardly dragging the wand with him, until he was a safe distance from the greedy dementor.  He was safe enough in his animagus form, but he didn't envy Harry's predicament and wasn't eager to join him in human form.

 

Peter materialized half a block away, outside of a little townhouse.  He quickly unlocked the front door and slipped inside, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom.

 

_ "Imperio," _ he whispered.  The elderly woman - the clerk from the post office - never saw him come in.  Early to rise, early to bed. Of course the old widow would be asleep at this hour.

 

He brought her outside and directed her to the dementor, which seemed all too eager for a fresh meal.  Using the old woman as bait, he led the dementor away from Harry. When she and her dark companion were nearly out of sight, he lifted the curse.  He hardly heard her scream when Harry began to rouse.

 

_ "Imperio," _ he repeated, feeling slightly dizzy this time.  He didn't have much time. Her wailing would draw Lupin back in their direction.  "Get up." 

 

Harry stood, his eyes glazed over.  His hands were scratched and bruised, and the arms of his pajamas were thoroughly shredded.  His fingers and nose were bleeding, and his lips were blue. Peter didn't know how he had gotten out, but it had not come easily.  He could take comfort in that, at least. 

 

"Remain silent.  Hide in the alley, in that cart there.  Don't let anyone see you." 

 

Harry obeyed instantly.  When Peter was satisfied that Harry wouldn't be seen from within the old abandoned merchant cart that was crammed into the narrow alley, he ducked into the bushes on the other side of the road.  He dearly wished he had the invisibility cloak now, as he couldn't transform while maintaining the Imperius Curse. He would just have to hope against hope that Lupin would overlook them.

 

Lupin himself burst upon the scene just as Peter settled.  The pounding of his dingey shoes against the pavement slowed to a stop as the professor surveyed the scene.  His wand was too bright for Peter to make out his face, but it was definitely Lupin. There was no mistaking the hunched over figure of his old friend.

 

"Harry?!" Lupin croaked into the silence.

 

Peter began to sweat, his skin steaming in the frigid air.  It was difficult to maintain the Imperius from this position, where he couldn't even see Harry.   _ Move along, Moony, _ he thought desperately.

 

"Harry…?" Lupin repeated, spinning in a slow circle.

 

Peter resisted the urge to wipe the sweat as it dripped into his eyes.  And then, a scream. The old widow was still in trouble down the street.  His old friend took off. Peter could have kissed her, but it sounded like the dementor was doing that already.

 

Peter ordered approached the cart and hastily ordered Harry back to the Shack.  "Don't be seen by anyone but me."

 

Harry obeyed.  Peter wondered if he imagined the pained look that flashed across the boy's blank face.   _ Just a trick of the light. _

 

* * *

**Sunday, November 21st:  Early Morning**

 

Harry woke up in a daze, his body drenched in a cold sweat that felt like ice.  The last thing he remembered was...a woman, screaming. His mother was screaming, begging for mercy.  A dementor, he remembered with a jolt. The jolt sent him into an all too familiar sway and he groaned, fresh horror rising in his chest as he pried open his eyes.

 

He was back in the room.  It was pitch black except for the candle on the battered bedside table.  He couldn't see anyone but that didn’t mean much. He had left his invisibility cloak behind, after all.

 

It was all he could do to keep from screaming.  In horror, frustration, self-pity. He bit his lip until his teeth sank into the skin and he tasted blood.  It was hard to breathe and his vision swam with tears. His arms were once more tied above his head, he could feel the familiar rope biting harshly into skin that had been rubbed raw during his ill-fated escape.

 

There was movement in the pocket of his pajama shirt, near his hipbone, and Harry yelped hoarsely.  He wriggled in panic as the movement increased. Looking down, he was disgusted when a rat popped up out of his pocket, seemed to consider him, and then scurried down his trousers and onto the floor.  Harry shuddered. He suddenly couldn’t fathom how Ron had ever carried Scabbers in his pocket...he felt violated.

 

Harry watched the rat scuttle across the room, and then...strangely...it started to grow.  In seconds, where the rat had just been, his captor now stood. He was staring at Harry with nothing short of loathing in his eyes.  Harry gaped at him, unable to process what he had just seen.

 

“Y-y-you…” he stammered.  He shook his head in disbelief.

 

“Oh, didn't I mention?” the man said with a coy smile.  “I’m an animagus.”

 

Harry gaped at him.  He would not have imagined that this sniveling, shrinking, pining Death Eater could be capable of the animagus transformation.  McGonagall had covered animagi in class. It was extremely advanced and difficult magic, not covered in Hogwarts at all except in theory.  McGonagall herself, a master in the field of transfiguration, could turn into a cat. Harry wished she were here now, hunting for a late night snack.

 

Harry saw that his wand was back in the man’s grasp.  Bile rose in his throat. He tried to resign himself to the inevitable - but he found the whole situation impossible to accept.  He had escaped, he had been free! The dementor wasn’t supposed to be there! His enemy wasn’t supposed to be an animagus! It wasn’t  _ fair!   _

 

“You almost got away,” the man hissed, trembling in fury.  “I’ve already sent a follow-up to Macnair, I expect he’ll be here soon.  What do you think he’d say if he arrived to find that you escaped?! What do you think he’d do?!”  Harry opened his mouth to give a biting reply but was cut off. “He would come after  _ me _ instead!” the man shrieked.  “Me! Because of you! You shouldn’t be here anyway!”

 

“I don’t want to be h - ”

 

“YOU SHOULD BE DEAD!” the man roared, spittle flying.  “THIS ISN’T HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO!”

 

Harry remained silent, sucking on his still-bleeding lip.

 

“I hate you,” said his captor.  “I  _ hate _ you, Harry.  I do. You ruined everything.  The Dark Lord never would have pulled me in if it weren’t for you.  He needed me to get to you and I only wanted to protect everyone. They were happy to die for you, but what use is that?  Why should we all die for a  _ baby? _ ”  The man was pacing but never took his loathing eyes from Harry, who tracked his path wearily.  “You wouldn’t have known the difference. But you lived and Black came after me and I’ve had to live like this for twelve years!  Twelve years a rat, because you wouldn’t just die!” 

 

Harry blinked.  Was it possible to live in your animagus form, day in and day out?  What had been the alternative choice, he wondered, if living as a rat was his decision?  

 

“I hate you,” the man whispered again, coming to a stop.  He raised the wand, lips beginning to form that horrible incantation, and Harry squirmed and bucked in sheer panic.  No, no, he wasn’t ready, not again, he was supposed to be  _ free! _

 

The man froze, his eyes wide.  Harry froze as well. But why?

 

A noise.  Downstairs.  The smallest of sounds, but easy to distinguish in the dead of night.  The man searched around quickly, checking the bed, lifting the mattress.  Harry watched all of this happen as if in slow motion, hardly daring to believe someone might be in the house with them, just downstairs.  He opened his mouth, drew a breath, and - 

 

“ _ Silencio! _ ”

 

Harry felt his voice deaden and he jerked in frustration.  The wizard seemed to have given up on his search.  _ The cloak! _  Harry realized.   _ It's gone! _  The idiot had actually managed to  _ lose _ it, incredible...  

 

The man jabbed Harry's wand at the knotted rope above his head and uttered a severing charm.  Harry fell into his arms, crying out silently at the unique combination of pain and relief as his arms came down in front of him.  He was still tied, but now free from the beam. The man carried him to the wall on the other side of the bed. From his position facing the man’s chest, Harry couldn’t see what was happening.  There was a quick carving sound and then a muffled wrenching noise. 

 

When the man repositioned Harry, he saw that there was now a long hole cut into the wall near the floor.  The hole reminded him strongly of a coffin turned on its side. There was about six inches of space between the room's planked wall and the back panel, which was solid wood.  A section of the wall, which matched the shape of the hole exactly, was hovering above their heads, ready to swing down into place again. The man began to roll him inside and Harry flailed his arms and legs, twisting and turning.  He didn't have to escape, he just had to stay visible long enough to - 

 

_ “Petrificus totalus!" _

 

Harry went rigid.  His arms were still tied together in front of him so they were unable to snap to each side, but that didn’t stop them from trying.  They pulled uselessly against the ropes, his entire torso was taut, but the ropes remained firmly tied. The man shoved him into position, rolling him onto his side so that he fit into the narrow space.  Harry was facing the room and he watched helplessly as the cut section of the wall fell into place again. The man sealed it shut with a wave of his wand and then the rat was back. Beady black eyes peered at him triumphantly through the cracks of the wall and Harry was filled with a burning hatred.

 

The door burst open a moment later and the room was flooded with wand-light as half a dozen people rushed inside.  Harry could barely see what was happening through the cracks in the wall. He was frozen in place but he tried to follow the flashing wand-lights as they darted madly around the room.

 

“Clear!” someone called gruffly.  “Kingsley?”

 

“Tonks's team is upstairs,” came the reply.  “Ground level and the garden are clear. Weasleys are watching the tunnel.”

 

“Get an Auror down there,” instructed the first voice.  “If Black comes back that way, they won't stand a chance.”

 

"All clear upstairs."

 

“Tonks, man the tunnel,” the second voice, Kingsley, ordered.  Someone left the room.

 

Harry's view was obstructed by the broken bed, which stood just three feet from his little coffin.  He could see blurry shapes of shoes and ankles on the other side of the bed when he looked under the mattress, so he settled his gaze there.  The rat cast one last look at him through the cracks and then scurried away, heading for the door. Harry screwed his eyes shut and focused every fiber of his being into moving.  If he could kick the wall or scream for help, even whimper, they would find him! They were so close!

 

“Lupin.”  It was the first voice again.  Harry redoubled his efforts at the sound of his Defense professor's name.   _ C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! _  “Where was the rope?”

 

“Just there,” Lupin said.   _ When did he see the rope? _  Harry thought in wild confusion. 

 

“It's gone now,” someone contributed unnecessarily.

 

“Alastor.”  Harry's breath hitched when he heard the headmaster speak.  Dumbledore was only _ six feet away from him! _  “On the floor...”

 

Silence reigned, and then the first voice spoke up.  “Blood, still tacky,” Alastor confirmed. “And dried urine.  He's been here for several days. When did you hear this lead?”

 

“Monday night,” Lupin answered, sounding choked.  Harry couldn’t comprehend what Monday meant. 

 

_ Just turn round! _ he screamed internally.   _ I'm over here!   _ He was still desperately trying to break through either of the spells.  There was a creaking sound by the foot of the bed and Harry looked over.  He was choked with desperate tears and his breath came in short gasps. Someone was slowly crossing to his side of the room.  They would find him! He couldn't see the person's face through the wand-light, but they were coming closer. They checked between the bed and the wall, peering over every inch of the floor.   _ Here!  I'm here!  Look at the wall!   _ Harry was stunned when the wand-light shifted and he caught a blurry glimpse of the person's face.  A curtain of black hair. Dressed in all black. 

 

If rescue had to come at the hands of Snape, then so be it!  Harry desperately willed the spells to break, but they remained strong.  Snape kneeled on the floor next to him and scanned the space under the bed.  He was inches from him now. Harry tried to push his breath out harder, through the small cracks in the wall, to get his attention...

 

A series of shouts and spellfire sounded from downstairs.  Snape stood and bolted for the door with the others. Footsteps thundered up and down the stairs, everyone was yelling and Harry heard cracks and crashes as the house was blown apart.  The rescue party seemed to be spread across the ground floor and the lower half of the stairs. Harry was alone.

 

“It's alright!” a voice called, bringing the battle to a halt.   _ Have they caught him?  _ Harry dared to hope.  “Only a dog. It's gone now.”   _ A dog?  No, look for the rat!  _

 

“Dog?!” Lupin's shout came from very far away, on the other side of the house.  “Where did it go?”

 

“Lost sight of it,” Kingsley answered, sounding closer to the room.  “Alastor's gone to relieve Tonks. Says he'll keep an eye on the tunnel.  That must be where it came from, it's the only way in or out.”

 

"There's a window - "

 

As the voices went on, a soft clicking sound reached Harry's ears.  His eyes darted around. The room was dark except for the flickering candle on the bedside table, and he could just make out the shape of the doorway.  In the shadows he saw a huge, hulking mass enter the room. This was not a person. The beast (was this the dog?) went straight for the floor above which Harry had been hanging for half his life.  It sniffed the floorboards, whining. It traveled around the room, back to the door, then to the bed, where it growled lowly. 

 

Harry began to understand the others' panic when he saw that it was indeed a monstrous dog.  It was twice the size of Fang! It leapt up onto the bed and began shredding the mattress viciously, teeth bared, claws digging through the ancient duvet that Harry's captor opted to lie on top of rather than use.  Dust and fluff flew every which way, clouding the air. As some of it drifted towards Harry's wall, he felt his nose tickle.

 

He sneezed.

 

Still trapped in a body-bind, Harry hardly moved when the sneeze wracked his body but he thought he may have cracked a rib.  The dog ceased its ferocious attack on the bedding and perked up, ears alert. Harry watched its blurry form, eyes prickling.  The dog stepped off the side of the bed, snout twitching. It was just a shadow as it moved away from the candle. It approached the wall now, snuffling, becoming increasingly agitated.  Harry saw a flash of yellow teeth and suddenly became nervous. Its nose was right next to him. 

 

The dog backed up a step and Harry met gray eyes through the crack in the wall. 

 

Mad barks wrecked the quiet of the room and Harry couldn't look away from those eyes.  The dog scratched at the wall, yelping, whining, and barking, and he felt his heart soar.  The dog wouldn't get through the wall, he was in no danger of becoming dinner, but the others were just downstairs - 

 

Sure enough, the room flashed red and Harry blinked, unable to flinch, as a spell crashed into the corner, just missing the dog.  The animal backed up, darted under the bed, clearing Harry's view of the door. Lupin!

 

"HE'S HERE!" Lupin roared.  

 

There was a flurry of movement behind the professor and suddenly the room began to fill with wizards again.  It was chaos. There was a pop, a crack, the bed was blown apart, and when Harry looked under the debris again, he found that the dog had disappeared.

 

There was a brief pause, and then a massive explosion rocked the house, echoing in Harry's bones.

 

"GO!"

 

More chaos ensued, downstairs and out of sight.  Harry was left alone once more. The candle had gone out at some point.  The dust and debris were making his eyes water and his throat parched, and he managed to sneeze again.  What was that explosion? Where was the dog? Where was the  _ rat? _

 

A tiny movement by his head - Harry squinted against the darkness.  It was utterly silent except for the voices downstairs, which were alternating between shouting and muttering.  But something was moving by the wall. Scratching. A pair of beady black eyes flashed in the dark. The rat squeezed through a tiny hole then scurried across Harry himself, gripping his hair and hurrying down the side of his face, his neck, his arms.  The rat settled on the coil of ropes around his arms and sniffed his bound hands. No, not sniffed - bit. Tears stung his eyes as the rat chewed on his fingers. His hands became slick with blood and he wanted nothing more than to squeeze his palms together, to crush the rat and use it as an ingredient in Snape's class.

 

They waited together in the dark for what must have been hours while the voices downstairs deliberated.  The dog didn't return. There was a creaking and groaning and they listened as the house was repaired from the earlier explosion.  Morning light began to creep into the room from the far wall. 

 

The voices fell away, and the rat kept chewing.

 

* * *

**Thursday, November 25th**

 

Sixteen days after Harry Potter's abduction, three-quarters of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was called in to patrol full-time in Hogsmeade, the Forbidden Forest, the cave system, and the exterior of the Shrieking Shack.  Remus confessed to Sirius Black’s animagus form that late Saturday night in the Shack as they picked through the debris left behind by the explosion Black had set off downstairs. It was evidently the same spell he once used against Peter and all those Muggles twelve years ago.  Moody reckoned it was his specialty.

 

When Remus finally explained the dog’s identity, there was no swearing or shouting or cursing from the others.  Only silent consideration at first. Dumbledore would not meet his gaze. Moody then began barking orders to the other Aurors while McGonagall shook with silent rage, and Snape, strangely, had no cutting remarks for him.  But Remus did not miss his accusatory glare.

 

Moody and Dumbledore arrived at the mutual conclusion that the public should not be informed of Black’s animagus form, despite the risks.  During all of the confusion in the Shack, it was very possible that Black managed to miss the fact that Lupin was present. If he remained ignorant of Lupin’s participation in the search, they had a better chance of capturing Black if he was indeed wandering freely as a dog.  It was a longshot, and the Weasleys had brought up an excellent point about the safety of an unsuspecting public. But for now it was their best hope for recovering Harry, if he still lived... Snape had reasoned that with two close calls in the span of a week, Black was likely to cut his losses and flee the area.

 

Remus could hardly bear to teach the Gryffindor third year class that Thursday afternoon.  He knew he owed Harry’s friends an explanation of the week’s events, especially after they had risked their lives to find the lead about the Shack.  He hated himself for not pursuing it sooner, for not bringing it up at the meeting, despite the discovery of the cave. He couldn’t fathom why Black was using both the cave and the Shack, but Moody was adamant that the upstairs bedroom had clearly been in use for a long time - possibly for as long as Harry had been missing, which would explain why they found no evidence of the boy in the cave.  

 

Remus wondered what he had missed Saturday evening.  He wondered where Harry had gone. Where the ropes had gone in the time between his solo mission at dusk and their second attempt later that night.  He recovered the invisibility cloak, but Black and Harry were still missing. They had been so  _ close _ to capturing Black.  So where was Harry?

 

He managed to stumble through a lecture and was even able to lead a practical lesson in which no one was injured.  Remus was beginning to feel quite run down after all of the extra hours he had spent the past two weeks in the search for Harry, but he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of a nap.  Harry certainly wouldn’t be sleeping much either, and that was his fault. He sank into the chair behind his desk with a weary sigh, letting his eyes slip closed for only a moment…

 

“Professor Lupin?”

 

Hermione, Ron, and Neville were standing anxiously in front of his desk.

 

“Yes?”

 

“We were wondering - ”

 

“Did you find anything in the Shack?” Ron blurted.  Remus sighed again, covering his mouth with a hand. How to begin…

 

“We didn’t find Harry,” he said finally.  “But, we found evidence to support your theory.  Someone has indeed been using the Shack. It seems your hunch was correct.”  Neville looked slightly green, Hermione’s eyes were shining brightly, and Ron was clearly on the verge of losing his temper.  “I can’t go into specifics - ”

 

“He’s our friend,” Ron ground out between clenched teeth.  “He’s our friend and nobody tells us anything!”

 

“I underst - ”

 

“No, you don’t!”

 

“Please, Mr. Weasley… Ron…” he begged.  Ron stopped, but the air remained thick with tension.  He cleared his throat. “Please...you have to understand, I know what you're going through.  James was…” he swallowed thickly. “I want Harry back as much as you do.” 

 

The students looked uncomfortable as Remus fought to bring himself back under control.  He was so tired...

 

“What did you find?” Hermione asked gently.

 

Remus hesitated but decided that they would find out soon enough anyway.  Whether Harry was eventually recovered safely or not, his friends would learn the details.

 

“There were ropes in the upstairs bedroom.  Tied to the ceiling beam...” The words came tumbling out in a rush and Remus barely comprehended the horror on their faces before he continued.  “There...there was urine on the floor, beneath that. Several days’ worth. But no Harry. I heard a sound before I entered the house, but didn’t see anything once I was inside.  I recovered the invisibility cloak...the ropes and and the bed were warm…” he trailed off, throat tight.

 

“So they were nearby?” Hermione caught on.  She was always a bright one. “If it was still warm, that means - ”

 

“We didn’t find them,” he reminded her.  “It was too late. Black...somehow, he blew out the front of the house and used the distraction to escape.  They’ve gone.” He left out the explanation of the dog. And he didn’t tell them about the chase he had gone on that led to the discovery of an old woman under attack by a dementor.  He had a feeling he had been on the right track before he was led away by the woman’s cries. Just another way he had failed in this investigation.

 

“You said you got the cloak back?” Ron ventured.  Remus nodded. It remained in Dumbledore’s possession.  “Then you can just hide under the cloak and wait for them to come back, right?  They’ll come back and you can catch Black and - ”

 

“We have Aurors standing guard,” he interrupted.  “If anyone tries to enter the Shack, they’ll be apprehended.  But it’s almost certain that he’s moved on.”

 

“Moved on where?” Neville squeaked.

 

“That remains to be seen.”

 

* * *

Padfoot paced back and forth on the wet mountain path, watching the distant figures warily through a haze of freezing rain.  They appeared as dots, they were so far away. Between the dementors hovering around Hogsmeade and the Aurors guarding the exterior of the Shack, he had been left out in the cold while that  _ rat _ kept Harry inside.  By the looks of things, the rescue team - consisting of the Hogwarts staff, the Weasleys, and one or two old Order members - had repaired the damage Wormtail caused on the ground level.  

 

Wormtail.  He would rip that rat to shreds when he found him.  Padfoot had smelled Peter all over that room. He had smelled Harry, too.  Harry’s scent was on the floor - urine, blood, and sweat - while Peter’s scent took up the bed.

 

But then Padfoot had heard something.  Smelled Harry. Saw his green eyes peering out at him, scared.  Hopeful. Lily's ghost was screaming at him to save those eyes, save her baby boy, and he was _so_ _close!_  Inches away!  He tried to get to him, tried to claw his way through the panels, tried to call for help, forgetting that it would mean his life.  His soul. In the blink of an eye, it all changed. He narrowly avoided capture, narrowly avoided the Dementor’s Kiss, but in avoiding that fate, he left Harry behind.  He had resigned Harry to the Shack. To Peter.

 

Later, overcome with guilt and self-loathing, he licked his wounds and told himself that they would surely check the wall Remus had thrown the curse into, that they would discover Harry.  But they never checked the wall. The Daily Prophet was still full of empty speculation, which meant that his godson was still in Wormtail’s clutches.

 

He would find a way inside.  Or he would write a note, explaining everything about Peter and how to find Harry, and he would figure out a way to get it into Dumbledore's hands.  Or to Remus. The trouble was that if they hadn’t known about his animagus ability before, they certainly did now. Remus would be after his blood, and Sirius could hardly blame him after being in that room.  He couldn’t simply trot into the post office and send a letter, even in his dog form. There had to be another way...Harry’s life depended on it.

 

* * *

Harry didn’t know what day it was or how many mornings had passed since Dumbledore had been in this room.  He was vaguely aware that it was no longer necessary for his captor to cast a silencing charm on him. There was blood in his mouth and it coated the inside of his throat, and he had no voice left to scream.  The room seemed darker, or maybe he was only ever awake at night...he could just barely make out the candle. But time held no meaning for him anymore. Even the man’s hateful words seemed muffled and dull. There was only pain and silent screams.

 

* * *

Peter read and reread the letter, pawing at it for reassurance.

 

_ Wormtail, _

 

_ I thank you for thinking of me during your hour of need.  I have curtailed the rest of my holidays and picked up the search in Albania.  Please do alert me when the Aurors back off. I would find nothing more refreshing during my laborious search than to pop in for a visit now and then. _

 

_ WM _

 

It had taken far longer than he initially hoped, but his letter had finally made it to Macnair.  He was distressed to learn the man had gone on holiday in Russia immediately after the manticore’s execution - he worried his original letter may have been left somewhere for curious eyes to find.  But the letter had simply remained on Macnair’s Ministry desk for a week before eventually being forwarded to his remote vacation destination. And then Peter’s frantic follow-up message had made it through.  Macnair’s response arrived at the post office, marked for one W. Tail. Peter waited for the post office to empty before appearing in his human form. At his inquiry, the elderly post office clerk had simply handed over the letter without so much as a second glance.  Though she has escaped the dementor unKissed, she was looking rather under the weather and was eager to close up shop.

 

He warned Macnair to stay away, citing the Aurors' constant presence, but thinking mostly of the man’s propensity for torture and bloodshed.  A helpless Boy-Who-Lived would make quite the holiday for Macnair. But Peter thought he himself had earned the boy’s company and he was hard-pressed to share it with anyone.  Harry wasn’t looking particularly sharp these days anyway. Blood seeped from his nose, mouth, and ears after only one or two rounds of the Cruciatus and Peter was forced to back off all too soon.  There wasn’t much to do while they were stuck in the Shack: Wormtail could come and go as he pleased, but there was no way to sneak Harry out without the cloak. They were trapped, at least until Macnair found the Dark Lord.  Peter hated being trapped. And he hated Harry.

 

* * *

The man was a rat, that much he understood.  And he understood that the rat slept in his pocket.  The rat had long since chewed through some of the fabric and was fond of nibbling on him.  His hip ached and felt oddly warm in the freezing room. He understood that when he tried to scream, no sound came out...his breath fogged in the air in front of him, but there was never any sound.  He understood that he couldn't speak or scream or make any noise. He couldn't move or interact with what was around him. He was almost a ghost now, floating…. All noise fell away from him, the room was so dim, and he couldn't latch onto anything.  The rat's words - no, the man's words seemed to come from far away or under water. 

 

He didn't understand those words.

 

He thought the rat was in front of him now, but he couldn't be sure.  He wasn't sure he cared anymore. Darkness was creeping in, numbness was taking over, everything was becoming dull.  That was alright with him. The rat moved. Or was it a man? How tall were rats? There were two figures now, side by side.  Both tall, or at least taller than the average rat. 

 

He heard something but didn't understand what it was.  A flash of light. Hot pain raced across his skin, tearing him apart.  The pain shattered the numbness, and then it was dark and silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!! Thank you for your responses! I should've known all this angst would bring in the readers...


	3. A Mouthful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Gryffindors take matters into their own hands and Padfoot gets a snack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the shortest chapter of the fic at 3k, but hopefully there's enough action in it to round out the first third of the story!

**Wednesday, December 1st**

 

"This would be a lot easier with the map," muttered Fred.  Or George.

 

"What do you need a map for?" Ron asked.

 

"Shh!" came the reply.  "Auror, up ahead!"

 

Ron bit back a retort.  They lingered at the edge of Zonko’s Joke Shop, peaking around the corner.  Neville shivered next to him, Hermione absentmindedly twisted a corner of Ron's winter cloak, and the twins stood on either side of them, wands at the ready.

 

"What is he doing?" Ron asked, watching the man in red robes that stood outside the gate in front of the Shrieking Shack.  "I thought they were patrolling?"

 

"Let's ask him, shall we?" one of the twins said sarcastically.  Ron glared at him.

 

"Shouldn't they be watching the Shack?  Shouldn't they be _ inside? _ "

 

"Lupin says it isn’t safe anymore," the other twin explained.   _ Since when are you chummy with Lupin?   _ "Said the explosion caused a lot of damage on the ground level."

 

"They repaired what they could, but the whole structure's unstable."

 

"Could come down on top of them if they went stomping around inside."

 

"And besides, Black's not in there anymore.”  

 

“If he tries to come back, he'll have to get through the fence."  Ron really hated it when they spoke back and forth like that.

 

"Can't he just Apparate inside if he wanted back in?" asked Neville.

 

"They extended the wards before the raid, remember?" Hermione answered.  "And he's using - "

 

"Harry's wand, yeah, got it," Ron finished, watching the lone Auror.  To say he was frustrated with the Aurors and other grown witches and wizards in the bloody  _ search party _ would be an understatement.  Ron and his friends had gone after the Stone in their first year, Ron and Harry had rescued Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets as mere second years, and these idiots couldn't capture a mad convict despite all those close calls!  Harry had been missing for three weeks and they were no closer to a proper rescue. "Aren't they patrolling the rest of the village? Why's there only one Auror? And he's just  _ standing _ there!"

 

_ "Shhh!" _

 

Ron's ears burned but he fell silent.  He observed the quiet street. Snow had begun to fall steadily during the week and the Gryffindors left footprints four inches deep all over the village.  Theirs were some of the only footprints on this side of town. Dementors made their rounds here regularly and Ron's winter cloak did nothing to ward off the unnatural cold that the Azkaban guards held over the village.

 

They waited, though Ron couldn't say what they were waiting for.  The Auror remained in place, occasionally stamping his feet to keep warm, and appeared slightly bored.  A dementor floated by and the Auror shuddered violently. Ron watched as he pulled out his wand and made the tip glow bright white.  The dementor shirked around him, then continued on its path. Another one appeared not far from the first and the Auror kept his wand glowing, holding it protectively in front of him but otherwise leaving the dementors to their own patrol duties.

 

"The dementors..." Hermione muttered to herself.  Ron glanced at her and recognized the tell-tale signs of gears turning in her mind.  He nudged her to continue. "They've kept themselves to this side of the village...no one's been over here at all lately.  But they won't leave the Shack alone."

 

The others stared at the Shrieking Shack.  Ron thought he might scream if they all kept talking in circles.

 

"But there's no one in there," he bit out.  "They cleared it last week. And you said yourself that no one can Apparate inside!"

 

"I know that!" she snapped.  "But look! Watch the dementors!"

 

Ron watched.  There were three dementors now, hovering close to the iron fence that surrounded the Shack.  The Auror kept his wand lit and seemed uncomfortable but not panicked. Maybe this was normal behavior, maybe he was used to their close proximity.  The Gryffindors had come across no dementors in their journey through the village and now there were three all at once. Surrounding the Shack.

 

"The Auror's the only one out here," Neville reasoned, his voice shaking.  "They f-feed off p-p-people, right?"

 

"Emotions and memories," Hermione nodded.  "But they're not interested in him."

 

"How can you tell?" Ron asked.  "They have no faces!"

 

"They have faces, Ronniekins," one of the twins corrected him.

 

"But you won't see under the hood unless it's too late."

 

Neville swayed and Ron glared at the twins.  They shrugged apologetically. Ron watched the dementors again and saw that Hermione was right:  they paid no attention to the Auror at all. Their hoods, faces unseen, were turned toward the Shack.

 

"But - but they cleared it..."

 

"I think they missed something," she whispered in a dread voice.  They seemed unable to look away from the dementors, but then a snuffling sound came from behind them.  All four turned as one to find a huge black dog in the alleyway.

 

It was the grim.  Ron swore loudly and drew his wand.

 

"Crookshanks!" Hermione gasped, knocking his wand-arm down.  An orange blur streaked up the alley and Hermione's flat-faced cat took up a protective pose in front of the beast.  The dog was massive, but it was crouched low to the ground, ears down, eyes up. The epitome of a submissive pose. "What are you doing out here?!"

 

"Hermione!" Ron squeaked disbelievingly.  "Do you not see the giant  _ grim  _ behind your bloody cat?!"  All his feelings of helplessness and frustration came flooding back at the sight of the death omen and Ron wanted to curse it.

 

"Honestly,  _ Ron _ ," she said in exasperation.  "It's just a dog - all that grim nonsense is rubbish."  He frowned, trying to believe her, trying to see the dog within the omen.

 

"I don't think it's dangerous," Neville murmured.  "I think it's just hungry."

 

"C'mon," a twin groused.  "We don't have time for this."

 

"We know how to get inside the Shack," said the other.

 

"You've  _ known _ how to get inside this whole time?!" Ron cried.  Hermione shushed him and the twins looked slightly guilty.

 

"Sort of."

 

"'Sort of'?" he repeated blandly.

 

"Well… We only have to get past the Whomping Willow."

 

His heart dropped into his stomach.  Even if they got past the Auror on the east grounds, they would be crushed by the branches.

 

"W-what?!" whimpered Neville.

 

"Let's go," he said decidedly.  Neville began to protest and Ron rounded on him.  "The search party is  _ useless _ , we've given them too many chances already!" he argued.  "And Harry would come for us." The others considered this, then nodded, one by one.  Even Neville.

 

The dog whined and creeped forward.  Ron pulled his wand on the animal threateningly but the dog kept edging ever closer.  Crookshanks remained by its side and Hermione seemed uncertain.

 

"We've got to get back to Hogwarts," said a twin.

 

"We'll go down to the Whomping Willow from the castle, there's no way we'll get past the guards at the gate."

 

Without another word, their party turned and headed back to Honeyduke's, animals in tow.

 

* * *

Padfoot followed the teenagers out of the castle, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings.  The castle was mostly deserted. It was the middle of the afternoon and everyone was in class.  He wondered idly what classes Harry's friends were skiving in order to snoop around Hogsmeade on a Wednesday afternoon, but he couldn't be more grateful for the escort.  The Aurors were watching the Shack's exterior and guarding the castle gate. They were hidden among the trees of the Forbidden Forest and he didn't have any hope of sneaking through Honeyduke's by himself.  But the Honeyduke's clerk had merely raised a brow at the strange group as they darted past him and ducked into the cellar. Sirius would have to find a way to thank him for his cooperation if everything worked out.

 

If he came out of this with his life and his soul and his godson.

 

They approached the Whomping Willow and Padfoot had to fight the urge to bolt for the cover of the branches.  He felt exposed. A black spot on the pristine snow-covered grounds. There was no Auror in sight but that didn't mean they weren't watching.  It was six days after the incident in the Shack. The Aurors  _ might _ have given up constant surveillance of the tunnel's entrance, choosing instead to pass by at seemingly random intervals….  Or it could be a trap. 

 

Crookshanks scurried ahead and touched the knot on the tree.  Sometimes he wondered if the cat itself was an animagus - it was incredibly perceptive.  The branches froze and the students shared a shocked look. Padfoot plowed forward, aiming for the tunnel, wanting to be anywhere but out in the open, fully expecting to be brought down by a stunner at any moment.  But he made it to the tunnel without incident, and the others hesitantly followed.

 

It was a quiet journey.  Padfoot had no other plan besides  _ kill the rat. _  He was armed only with his teeth.  The others would have to take care of Harry…he would have to trust them.

 

They arrived at the trapdoor and Padfoot didn't even wait for them to catch their breath.  He thrust the door open clumsily with his head and tried to scramble up into the parlor. It was difficult in his dog form and no one seemed eager to give him a boost, but he made it up with minimal flailing.  The others followed suit, albeit hesitantly. The parlor creaked ominously and the wall bordering the front yard seemed to vibrate with magic. After last week's explosion, which had ripped out the front of the ground level, he suspected that magic was all that was holding the Shack together at this point.

 

He smelled a new scent on the stairs, one that was totally unfamiliar.  It was fresh, perhaps a few hours old, and it definitely wasn't Peter or Harry.  Ears back, he raced up the stairs, Crookshanks on his tail. He arrived at the door only to find it locked, and bared his teeth impatiently while the students caught up.  

 

The girl eyed him warily before looking to the others.  They nodded. She took a breath and pointed her wand resolutely at the door.

 

_ "Alohomora." _

 

The room was much the same as last week: dim, dusty, lit by a single candle.  The bed was haphazardly repaired. Two figures were facing away from the door, watching a third, who was much smaller.  

 

Harry.  

 

He was hanging from the ceiling.  He was squirming. His arms were pulled taut by ropes and he was bleeding from every orifice.  Padfoot growled savagely and the two figures turned. With a roar, he launched himself at the one that was pointing a wand at Harry.  

 

A pair of brown eyes went wide in terror before he locked his teeth around the man's throat.  His momentum carried them back and Padfoot vaguely realized they had crashed into someone else, and then all he knew was blood.  Blood in his mouth and under his claws, blood spurting around the room and pooling on the floor. Soft tissue spread across his tongue, squishing into the spaces between his teeth, and he swallowed instinctively to make room for more.  The man's broken cries were forced to a guttural stop.

 

Crookshanks streaked past him and he realized too late that the man under him was not Peter.  But no matter. He was the one hurting Harry when they walked in, he was the immediate threat, and he was neutralized.

 

Now for Peter...

 

But he was gone!  Swallowing another wretched mouthful, Padfoot growled and snapped at the air.  He sniffed around with single-minded determination, searching for Peter's trail.  But it was useless. Wormtail's scent covered the room, covered the floor, covered...

 

"Oh, Harry..."

 

The girl was crying and Padfoot wanted to join her.  Harry was trembling. His eyes were open but dark with blood.  Blood seeped from his nose, ears, and mouth, it tracked down his cheeks like tears.  His red flannel pajamas were shredded, they hung on him like a threadbare sack, coated with blood, sweat, vomit, and urine.  He wasn't looking at any of them. He didn't respond to his name, he didn't make a sound. He only swayed and trembled in the ropes, gasping intermittently with short, choked breaths.

 

The boy who wasn't a ginger - Padfoot couldn't recall his name, if he had ever heard it - stepped up.  Face pale, he reached out and wrapped his arms around Harry's waist. He lifted, giving the rope some slack.  One of the twins used a severing charm on the ropes and pulled his arms and legs free. Harry should have gone slack in the boy's arms, but he tipped back instead.  His limbs were rigid and the trembling increased ten-fold. The boy struggled to hold him and the others crowded around, blocking Padfoot's view.

 

Crookshanks was gone.  The unknown man remained on the ground, his dead eyes staring up at the beam from which Harry had been suspended.  Padfoot licked his lips, thinking he could go for another taste of the man's fear and pain - 

 

"...hospital wing  _ now _ ," someone was saying urgently.  The students went for the door, one of the stocky twins carrying Harry.  His godson was twitching violently. It was difficult for the twin to keep his balance on the stairs and his brother had to help him carry Harry down the steps.  The girl was sniffling as she lit the way. The younger redhead charged forward and already had the trapdoor to the tunnel open, helping the others through.

 

"C'mon, Longbottom," one of the twins huffed as he held onto Harry's arms, easing him through the trapdoor.  Padfoot felt his heart clench.  _ Longbottom _ .  He glanced behind him and saw the boy was still lingering at the top of the steps, staring blankly into the bedroom.  With a jolt, Frank and Alice's boy seemed to come back to himself and he followed the others into the tunnel, leaving the creaking parlor behind.

 

* * *

Their strange rescue party clambered awkwardly out of the tunnel.  By the time Padfoot joined them, someone had already pressed the knot in the tree and they began to hurry toward the castle.  They didn't get far before Padfoot felt a cold that was all too familiar, a cold that went deeper than snow.

 

Three dementors were swooping up the hill from the castle gate, heading straight for them.  Panic gripped Padfoot’s heart and he began to whine, pushing on the twins carrying Harry. He was unarmed.  These students couldn’t perform a Patronus. Were the dementors after only him or their collective emotions?  If they were informed of his animagus form, did they understand it? Padfoot retreated several paces, but the Azkaban guards did not change their path.  They streaked up the hill, heading straight for the students.

 

The Gryffindors spotted their new foes.  The Longbottom boy stumbled and went down.  The twins thrust Harry’s shuddering form into their younger brother’s arms and began rummaging in their pockets while the girl cast a flurry of spells at their pursuers.  The dementors were still fifty yards away and the spells either petered out before reaching them or were wildly off the mark. The sky seemed to darken. Padfoot was shaking and panting, he couldn’t seem to get enough air - he had to transform, had to take a wand and try for a patronus, had to  _ do _ something - 

 

The twins gave weak cries of triumph, pulling several lumps out of their pockets and shoving them into the snow.  Within seconds, the lumps shot off into the air, rocketing into the sky and exploding over their heads in a raucous display of sparks and lights.  Wet-Start Fireworks. Brilliant boys! Padfoot glanced around. They were equidistant between the castle and the forest; somewhere, someone would hear the ruckus, see their trouble, and come to their aid.  He just had to keep the dementors at bay until then.

 

One of the dementors pulled ahead and began closing in, the others not far behind.  Its robes billowed out around it, making it seem much larger than Padfoot knew it to be.  A decaying hand reached out as it approached and the girl let out a strangled sound, stumbling back into the twins.  The older boys scrambled up from where they knelt in the snow and began hurling fifth year spells at the closest dementor.  The dementor didn’t stop. The rotted hand touched the girl’s neck and Padfoot launched himself at it. His teeth sank into icy-cold flesh and the stink of decay filled his mouth and nose.  It was nauseating, even worse than his mother’s signature custard pie. He lost his footing and they went tumbling, slipping and sliding across the snowy ground, but the girl was free.

 

Shouts in the distance and a silver streak of light passed right through him, slamming into the dementor.  It flew back and retreated, and the other two followed. Another streak of silver passed over Padfoot’s head and chased after them.  And then the shouts were louder and the spells were brighter. Red, yellow, and purple jets of light barreled toward him and Padfoot ducked.  He took off for the forest but had to veer sharply to the right to avoid three Aurors sprinting out of the trees. A volley of spells were aimed at his back, one of them grazing the top of his head just as he slipped into Hagrid’s garden.  He slinked through a maze of giant vegetables, which were frozen over and covered in snow which created the most dizzying maze. 

 

In his panic, he managed to run straight into the haunches of a gigantic hippogriff, because of course - what else would Hagrid keep in his vegetable garden besides frosted pumpkins and violent beasts?  The hippogriff spun around, rearing back, its deadly claws striking out. Praying for a miracle, Padfoot dove under an outstretched wing and aimed for the back gate, holding his breath and expecting to be cut down any moment by a claw or a beak or a spell.  Then suddenly he was surrounded by trees.

 

The shouts and curses followed, but Padfoot disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and let me know what you think! The next couple chapters will be a little tedious but still interesting...? I hope? Still plenty of angst left to go. Also, side note, it's really hard to switch between this horror-fest and my other WIP, which is a cute chocolate shop setting (or at least it was supposed to be until I started working on this story at the same time and the angst started leaking over).


	4. Blinded by the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A room in the Janus Thickey Ward, St. Mungo's. There is a bed, a side-table, a window covered by curtains, a visitor's table and some chairs. The door is closed. Our characters are already in place at the start of the scene.]
> 
> [Lights up]

**Saturday, December 4th**

 

A light to his left blinked weakly in the darkness….  Flickered and danced…. Sounds began to ease into his awareness.  A sound from his left, near the light, and another sound from...down?  Straight ahead? Muffled and far away. It was fuzzy. It was dark. And it was numb...blissfully numb.

 

The light went away.

 

* * *

 

Neville was perched on a padded chair between Harry’s bed and the wall.  His chair was pushed all the way up against the wall so that the back of his head brushed against an empty portrait frame; the painting’s occupant had been recently banished to another painting in order to ensure more privacy.  Ha! Privacy. Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Professor Lupin, the Headmaster, and, for now, a single Healer were also crammed into the dimly lit _private_ room of this all too familiar wing at St. Mungo’s.  Neville recognized the shuffling sound on the other side of the door but his eyes never left Harry while the Healer spoke.  

 

“...circulation has been improving steadily these past few days, that’s good for motor control down the road.”  

 

Healer Larson was a Muggleborn witch who had never quite outgrown the flower-power era of the 1960s, and Neville knew her well.  Her long gray hair was pulled back in a loose braid, foreign flowers woven throughout the plait, and her traditional green Healer robes were at least three sizes too large.  Her manner was strangely sharp and efficient for one whose appearance was so soft, but over the years Neville had learned how to read the warmth in her peculiar ways.

 

“Brain swelling has gone down as well so we should expect to see the bleeding taper off.”  

 

Harry’s eyes were open but clouded with blood.  Neville watched as they flicked around the room blindly, always returning to the candle on his bedside table.  Over the last three days, blood would occasionally seep from Harry’s ears or nose, and his lips were perpetually scabbed over.  Even his nails were bleeding: they kept a damp rag on the bedside table to clean his fingers and toes periodically. Neville had seen quite enough blood.

 

“When will he…” Mrs. Weasley began but trailed off.  Neville grimaced in understanding. Harry was awake, but he seemed completely unaware of his surroundings.  They spoke to him, called his name, held his hands. Not even a reactionary blink to indicate that he knew he wasn’t alone.

 

“He is technically conscious, as you can see,” Larson continued, moving to stand at the foot of the bed.  “He goes to sleep often and has no trouble waking. But he won’t have much awareness until he’s completed the treatment.  We’d like to do three more rounds before that happens.”

 

“When?” Mrs. Weasley repeated quietly.

 

“We’ll give him another week on the full regimen,” Larson answered.  “This is an experimental treatment. We haven’t had a case like this since the Longbottoms.”  Neville glanced up automatically and she caught his eye. “This combination of potions has been developed in theory by specialists over the years.  But as I said, since we’ve yet to test the process on anyone...the timing is what we need to determine. And once we complete the final round, we can’t go back for another attempt.  We must do this right.”

 

“It is best to err on the side of caution,” Dumbledore said.  His voice was soft and sad. “Take as much time as you need. Mr. Potter will do better in the long run if we’re patient.”

 

“Can't you make him...stop...doing that?” asked Ron vaguely, looking slightly green.  Harry had been trembling since his rescue three days ago. Sometimes he only seemed to vibrate slightly; small twitches and jerks would pull his hands out of their grasp briefly before settling into a slight shiver again.  But other times the trembling grew to something violent, like a fit. It didn’t seem to make a difference whether he was awake or asleep. It was horrifying. Neville was exhausted just watching the constant tension in Harry’s muscles, the way his veins stood out and his fingers flexed unnaturally.

 

“We’re anticipating severe nerve damage but we won’t know the full extent until next week, perhaps later,” Larson explained grimly.  “We hope this treatment will mitigate the worst of it. The tremors may never fully stop…” Neville felt his heart clench. “But I would be shocked if it didn’t improve past this.  We’re still in the early stages here. And the increased circulation is a good sign, so we’re optimistic. Give it the full week and we’ll reassess his prognosis.”

 

“And his fever?” Neville ventured, his voice a bit louder than he intended.  Harry’s eyes darted in his direction briefly before flicking to the foot of the bed and then settling back on the candle.

 

“I expect it will break overnight.”

 

“What are you feeding him?” he continued, vaguely aware that the others were watching him watch Harry.

 

“A strong nutrition potion is in each round,” Larson replied.  “He’s had one so far and he’ll be due for another later tonight.”

 

“Shouldn’t he get one every day, at least?” Neville insisted.  Harry had always been on the thin side, but his current state was downright alarming.  He must have gone the full three weeks without any food. _They should be pumping him full of nutrition potions!_

 

“He won’t starve in our care,” she reassured him dryly.  “The potion for his nervous system is incredibly powerful.  Everything else has to be weighed against it and timed correctly.  An extra dose of anything could reverse his progress. We’re pushing our luck as it is, given that this treatment was designed for an adult.”  

 

Neville knew for a fact that this experimental treatment had been designed with his own parents in mind.  The beloved Longbottom couple was a unique and heartbreaking case for many Healers, Aurors, and Order members alike, as his grandmother reminded him often.  Specialists came from far and wide to help, but by the time they had developed this potion regimen, the window for any real progress had long passed. Twelve years after the destruction of Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter would be the first case in which the Healers might successfully treat for prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus.  Everything was being documented. Specialists were in and out at all hours of the day and night. Neville’s own grandmother was questioned by a Healer from Japan, seeking to compare the Longbottom’s progress to Harry’s current state. His grandmother had seemed particularly pale that day and she had refused to see Harry. Neville couldn’t blame her...he himself found it difficult to visit his parents, though they were just on the other side of the wall, in the lounge outside this room.

 

“Thank you, Healer Larson,” Dumbledore said graciously.  

 

She met Neville’s eye one last time before leaving.  He knew that Harry was in good hands with Healer Larson and her team, but that didn’t stop him from hearing the sound of his own parents’ shuffling, aimless footsteps.

 

* * *

 

**Sunday, December 5th**

 

The light was back.  A sound from his right, a stream of noise that blended together.  Then silence. A similar sound, this time from his left. The Dursleys’ television was playing a cartoon program that Dudley loved.  Harry had never been allowed to watch it. Sometimes he tried to listen to the loud parts, but his cupboard was on the other side of the house, far away from the family room, and the sounds were always hopelessly muddled together by the time they passed through the rest of the house, through the cupboard door and into his ears.  

 

Harry blinked up at the flickering light in his cupboard.  He was lying down. So why was the light to his left rather than above his head?  Where was the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling? No...he wasn’t in his cupboard.  He was upstairs. Dudley’s second bedroom. There was a lamp on the broken desk, but that would be to his right.  Not his left.

 

He was definitely lying down, which was different - different from what, he wasn’t sure.  He felt softness pressing in from everywhere. That seemed strange, but nice. The sounds were coming from either side of him, not like a television set at all.  Odd. And the light was still to his left, stubbornly refusing to appear on the right where it belonged. That was wrong.

 

A shadow moved next to the light.  Shadows usually shrank as they got closer to light, but this one didn’t.  It was next to the lamp. It was moving. There was sound. Harry felt a sense of vertigo:  the room tilted, the light moved down, the softness began to leave. His back flared in pain and he felt pins and needles in every inch of his skin.  He opened his mouth to protest. He wanted the softness again. It hurt so much. He wanted the shadow to leave and the softness to come back.

 

Something cold flooded his mouth, cold and chunky and flavorless.  He spluttered and choked. It dribbled away. His throat burned and he tried to moan, he wanted the shadow to leave him alone, but no sound came out and the shadow remained.  The cold mess invaded his mouth again. He forced it down. The light blurred and he felt something warm on his cheeks. Everything hurt and he wanted to sleep in the softness again.

 

The light faded.

 

* * *

 

 

It was Sunday.  Neville and the other Gryffindors had convinced the Headmaster to allow them to remain with Harry until nightfall.  They had all lied through their teeth when asked about their homework but Neville was sure Dumbledore knew that and had allowed them to stay anyway.

 

Healer Larson enlisted Neville’s help in pulling Harry into a sitting position.  This was the first time he would take his potions while awake. The room was packed full of Gryffindors and Healers, and Dumbledore himself watched expectantly from the back of the crowd.  Neville eased Harry up, wincing as he felt the boy’s muscles spasm under his grip. Harry’s eyes began rolling in his head and his mouth fell open.

 

“H-he’s stopped breathing,” he realized, panic taking hold.  Three young Healers rushed forward but Larson stilled them with a glare.

 

“He’s trying to make noise,” she corrected.  Neville looked again and saw indeed that Harry’s mouth was opening and closing slightly, pushing air out but no sound.

 

“He’s trying to talk?” Hermione asked hopefully.

 

“That’s a bit generous,” Larson muttered as she held Harry’s head and tilted a vial against his lips.  The bright blue potion filled his mouth and everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath in anticipation.  Harry’s head jerked back in Larson’s grip and Neville saw his throat tighten. His mouth opened wider and the blue potion began draining back out.  It dribbled down the front of Harry’s hospital pajamas and a young Healer stepped forward to clean some of it off of Neville’s arm while he struggled to hold Harry upright.  His mouth was moving again, a little bit of blue-tinged spittle hanging from his lips. Neville reached back awkwardly and yanked a clean rag from the young Healer’s uncertain hands, using it to wipe Harry’s mouth, suddenly annoyed at the room full of gawkers.

 

“Second attempt.  Are you ready, Neville?”  Larson was undeterred and prepared another vial of the potion.  “Close his mouth with your other hand.”

 

He nodded, folding the rag over his palm.  She tipped the potion back and Neville reached up before it was even empty.  Just as it began leaking from Harry's lips, Neville pressed his mouth closed.  Blue potion began soaking into the rag. Harry jerked back reflexively again and Neville felt the spasms in his back return.  He felt like a monster - he was clearly causing his friend pain and he wanted to stop. They didn't need to do this, they could easily put him to sleep and give him the potions that way...  

 

At long last, Harry managed to swallow it down.  The room relaxed marginally and quills began scratching across parchment as various Healers muttered among themselves.  Ron looked confused and unimpressed.

 

Neville saw two fat tears roll down Harry’s cheeks.  He discarded the soaked rag and used with his own sleeve to dry them before anyone else noticed.  Harry sagged in his arms, eyes closed, and Neville and Larson worked together to ease him back down in the bed.  She would have to spell the rest of the potions into him while he slept.

 

* * *

 

**Wednesday, December 8th**

 

The feeling of pins and needles came back.  His skin prickled and stung. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to go back to nothingness, but it didn’t help.  He opened his eyes again, intending to glare at something, anything, but he saw nothing beyond the familiar light.  It was a candle, he realized. He wouldn’t glare at his candle. It was all he had.

 

A Shadow moved by his candle and Harry mustered up a nasty look for it.  He hated the Shadows. They only brought pain. Shadows and Rats were no good at all.  He wondered briefly where he was but decided that it didn’t matter. He thought he remembered things like _here_ or _there_ , rooms with walls and floors and furniture, but now it seemed his whole life was only darkness...just a dark place with a single candle.

 

Pain seared across his right hand and he turned away from his candle, trying to find the source of the torment, but he couldn’t see his hand at all.  He felt it cramping, pinching, aching, yet he couldn’t see anything in the darkness to his right, not even another Shadow. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.  Biting into his hand. _The Rat!_ he realized.  He focused all his energy into his hand, forcing it to close and then squeezing as tight as he could.  The pain in his fingers doubled, then tripled, but he kept squeezing. He had to kill the Rat. That would put an end to his misery.  Then the softness would return and he could slip back into nothingness.

 

He was tired, so tired, but he kept squeezing.  Sounds flooded his ears, making his head pound. He wanted desperately to move away from the noise but it surrounded him.  He kept squeezing. _Kill the Rat and everything will stop,_ he told himself.  His hand hurt so badly.  His ears were bombarded with sounds.  He tried to find his candle again, but the Shadow was in the way, obstructing his view.  He glared at it again. Shadows and Rats...that was why he was in pain, why he couldn’t see his candle.  He hated the Shadows and Rats.

 

The noises blended together, his head was splitting, his skin was burning, and then there was nothing.

 

* * *

 

 ****“He knows we’re here,” Hermione sobbed as she clutched Harry’s hand.  Hope filled her chest and a weight lifted from her shoulders. Harry was squeezing her hand.  He was staring right at her hand and he was squeezing it tightly with his scab-covered fingers.  He turned away but she hardly cared. She squeezed back, calling his name. Harry flinched and her heart went out to him. _He must be so scared._

 

“It’s just another muscle spasm,” Ron said dejectedly and she shook her head.

 

“No, look!”  She lifted their clasped hands for the others to see.  Ron and the twins seemed unconvinced and Neville was on Harry’s other side, bending close.

 

“Harry?” Neville called loudly.  “Harry, can you hear me?” Green eyes locked onto Neville and there was a strange expression on his face.  Hermione could hardly breathe. _He knows!_

 

“He’s looking at Neville!” one of the twins observed.

 

“Are you with us, mate?” the other asked.

 

“Healer Larson!” Ron screamed.  Harry flinched again.

 

“Stop it,” she scolded, “you’re scaring him!”

 

“We have to get someone!”  Ron took off through the door and Hermione turned back to Harry.  She watched helplessly as his eyes fluttered closed again. His hand relaxed, leaving hers cold and empty.  She fell back into the seat behind her, feeling spent.

 

Healer Larson arrived and was less than pleased when she pieced together what had happened.

 

“You were shouting,” she said testily.  It wasn’t a question.

 

“He knew we were here!” Ron snapped.  Larson gave him a reproachful look and he lowered his voice.  “He was squeezing Hermione’s hand, and then he stared right at Neville.  Didn't he?” Neville nodded but wouldn’t meet the Healer’s sharp gaze. “It’s more than we’ve gotten out of him all week!”  It was Wednesday evening and Harry faced two more days on the initial course of treatment. One more round to endure.

 

“You won’t get much of anything until Saturday,” Larson reminded them.  “These are extremely potent potions. He’ll be completely out of it until then.”

 

“But he _wasn’t_ completely out of it,” Hermione protested.  “He _knew_ we were here.”

 

“He sensed a presence,” she conceded.  “But he won’t be able to think properly or recognize anyone yet, these potions are too powerful.  He’ll be in a fog. I promise you that whatever you saw was not awareness.”

 

“He knew…” Ron muttered darkly, glaring at the covers tucked around Harry’s legs.  The worst of Harry’s tremors had stopped after the previous round, but he still shivered and shook.  They found that he was calmer when he was tucked in tightly. Only his arms were pulled free when they came to visit each evening, so that they could hold his hands while they spoke to him.

 

“He knew someone was here,” Larson agreed.  “But with all your shouting, I daresay he would have been scared out of his wits if he were capable of thought right now.”  Hermione bit her lip, remembering the way Harry had flinched away from them. “Count yourselves lucky this time. He’s been traumatized.  Don’t you forget what he's been through, because it will be all he can think of when he comes to.”

 

Larson glowered at them for a moment longer and then ushered them out of the room, sending them back to Hogwarts through the Floo in the adjacent ward.

 

Stepping out of the Headmaster’s fireplace and waiting for the others to catch up, Hermione quickly reported to Dumbledore what had happened.  It was their nightly tradition: the five Gryffindors would wolf down a quick dinner and then hurry off to St. Mungo's for a couple hours to spend time with Harry before returning to Hogwarts and updating the Headmaster.  

 

When Dumbledore at last ran out of questions, they hurried from the room.  As soon as they were clear of the gargoyle guarding his office, she rounded on Neville.

 

“What do you think?” she asked, watching him carefully.

 

He looked surprised that she was speaking to him.  “What do you mean?”

 

“He looked at you,” she pressed.  “Do you think he recognized you? Do you think he knew what he was doing or...or was his hand just spasming?”

 

Neville took a long time to consider and the others waited impatiently.

 

“We made eye contact,” he said finally.  “But I don’t think...I don’t think he knew it was me.  Or you. H-he looked upset.”

 

“Upset?” asked Ron.

 

“Yeah…” Neville continued slowly, brow furrowed.  “I dunno…”

 

“Scared?” Hermione recalled what Larson had said and guilt began to gnaw at her where hope had been just moments ago.

 

“No, not scared,” he shook his head.  “Just...upset. Angry, maybe. Or maybe he was in pain.”

 

“They’re treating his nerves,” Fred recalled.

 

“One of the other Healers said it’s a good thing he’s sleeping a lot or he’d likely be feeling a lot of things this week,” said George.

 

“If the treatment is hurting him, they should make him sleep until Saturday!” Hermione protested.

 

“Not necessarily pain,” George amended.  “The fellow from Japan reckoned Harry would feel everything or nothing, depending on where he was in each round when he wakes up.”

 

“Said he could go through another Cruciatus and he might not feel a thing,” said Fred.  “Or a fly could land on his nose and it’d feel like a bludger.”

 

Hermione's heart was pounding.  “Was I hurting him, do you think?” she asked in alarm.  “When I held his hand? Oh...”

 

Fred shook his head.  “He squeezed back, right?  Don’t you think he would’ve pulled away if it hurt?”

 

She considered this and thought he was right, but the way Harry had flinched from their voices still filled her with guilt.  She wished she didn't have to see Neville's parents every time they went to visit Harry. The Longbottoms were in the same wing, often huddled together in matching arm chairs in the lounge, and they passed by them every evening on their way to visit Harry.  Hermione was haunted by their faded slippers and blank expressions. Was that the future Harry was doomed to endure? She wanted to be encouraged by the Healers' optimism, but she despised how happy they had been when Harry managed at long last to swallow a bit of potion on Sunday.  If they were so pleased by that drooling, dribbling mess, how low was the bar set for success?

 

She knew they were all flying blind.  She knew Harry was not out of the woods, and she knew that Neville knew it too.

 

* * *

 

**Saturday, December 11th**

 

The final dose of the intense potion regimen had been administered over twenty-four hours ago and the Healers seemed to be expecting something, but nobody would say what exactly.  Ron watched Harry intently, holding his hand as he had been all Saturday morning. It was lunchtime now. His mother had smuggled in a feast, having no respect for the food provided by the hospital.  Hermione, Neville, the twins, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ate anxiously while two Healers fluttered around Harry uselessly. They checked and re-checked his temperature and pupils and reflexes, waving their wands and documenting every little thing.  Harry slept on, occasionally opening his eyes and shifting restlessly before drifting back to sleep.

 

Ron watched, hardly breathing, as Harry's eyes opened again.  This time they stayed open and his gaze rested on the candle on the other side of the bed.  The Healers kept the room fairly dim. A heavy curtain covered the huge window behind the visitors table and the only light was from the candle by the bed and a few sconces mounted on the walls around them.  The Healers warned that Harry's eyes and ears would be sensitive, so the room was kept dim and visitors were mindful to keep their voices low. Ron wondered if it wasn't the opposite, that Harry's eyes and ears were struggling to pick anything up at all.  That's why he kept staring at the candle, it wasn't that it was too bright…

 

"I think we should open the curtain."  The murmur of conversation stopped and Ron elaborated.  "I think he needs more light."

 

"We don’t want to overwhelm him," one of the Healers whispered.  Ron preferred Larson, even if she was short with them sometimes. "He’ll be sensitive to - ”

 

“I know what you _think_ ,” Ron growled.  “But he’s been staring at that candle all week.  I think that’s all he can see right now. It’s too dark in here.”  Neville abandoned his lunch and stood, approaching the bed and watching Harry.  Ron knew now that Neville had experienced none of this process with his parents - he had only ever known them as empty shells of what they once were - but that knowledge didn’t stop him from deferring to him when Healer Larson was absent.  “It’s too dark, Neville,” he insisted. “We need to open the curtain, light more candles.”

 

Neville hesitated, then nodded decisively and strode to the curtain in three short steps while the Healers protested.

 

“Young man - ”

 

“Healer Larson should - ”

 

Neville leaned across the table and yanked back the large curtain, pulling it all the way to the wall.  The weather outside was bright and cheery, and sunlight suddenly flooded into the room. Ron blinked rapidly.  When his vision adjusted, he found a pair of green eyes staring at him.

 

“Harry?” he whispered.  A beam of sunlight lay directly across Ron’s face, nearly blinding him, but he didn’t dare move away.  Harry was _looking_ at him, his eyes were raking over his face, they weren’t blank or glazed over anymore...only a bit unfocused.  “Can you see me?” he said, a little more loudly now. A chair screeched on the floor somewhere as someone abruptly stood.  Ron ignored it. He gave Harry’s hand a gentle squeeze.

 

Harry blinked and squeezed back.

 

Ron broke into a wide grin and Hermione rushed to his side.  Harry’s gaze landed on her and she gasped audibly. Ron heard one of the Healers rush away.  The other Healer reached forward on Harry’s other side, reaching to turn Harry’s face and take more measurements, but Ron batted him away.  Harry tracked the movement with mild interest, then returned to looking at Ron.

 

“Hey, Harry,” he said breathlessly.  Harry furrowed his brow. “How ya feeling?”  Harry didn’t say anything. He blinked again and then his lips twitched.

 

“He’s smiling!” Hermione screeched.  Harry flinched and pulled a frown, and Hermione lowered her voice.  “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, Harry…”

 

“Everyone step back.”  Healer Larson came into view, a harried group of specialists behind her.  “If you send him into a panic, so help me…” Ron and Hermione stayed right where they were while the others reluctantly made space.  Larson approached the other side of the bed and rested a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. His head turned jerkily to look at her, as if his neck didn't have much control.  Ron thought he looked confused.

 

“You’re in St. Mungo’s, Harry,” Ron explained.  Of course, the last thing he remembered was probably the Shrieking Shack.  There was no response and Larson held up a hand to stop him before he repeated himself more loudly.

 

“Silence,” she said quietly but authoritatively.  She turned back to Harry, who continued to watch her evenly.  She smiled kindly. “Can you speak?” Harry made no response. “Can you hear me?” she asked, maintaining a whisper.  No response. She repeated the question, a little louder this time, and Harry only blinked.

 

“He heard me,” Hermione said uneasily.  “I was too loud - ”

 

“Yes, the whole hospital heard you,” Larson grumbled, shooting her a look.  Hermione pursed her lips. “Can - you - hear?” Larson pronounced clearly, pointing to Harry and then to her own ear.  Harry frowned again. “He’s watching my mouth,” Larson explained as she observed her patient. “Either his hearing is damaged or his auditory processing is.”  Ron’s mind was reeling. What did that mean? He couldn’t be deaf if he had heard Hermione, but he wasn’t responding to their words. Was he… Was there anything left?

 

“Test his response to random stimuli,” another Healer suggested.  

 

Larson nodded and the Healers from earlier stepped into opposite corners, pulling their wands.  The first Healer let off a series of crackles and pops, about the volume of the dishes that washed themselves in the sink at the Burrow.  Ron looked back at Harry, who was still watching Healer Larson curiously. She held his gaze steadily, giving no indication that there was any sound in the room.  

 

“Give us a loud one, John,” Larson said.  The other Healer, standing in the corner closest to Ron, used his wand to produce a piercing whistle, like a tea kettle.  Harry immediately turned away from Larson, first glancing at Ron and then around the room in confusion. He never found John, nor did his attention linger in John’s corner, but Ron knew he had heard the whistle.  Larson nodded thoughtfully.

 

“So he can hear that?” George asked uncertainly, uncovering his own ears as the whistle stopped.

 

“I’ll say, for now, that it's just hearing loss,” Larson said, turning to face the others in the room.  “We’ll give him some more time to adjust before we explore cognition.” Harry glanced at her again while she deliberated with the other Healers, but he became disinterested when he couldn’t find her mouth to watch.  He turned back to Ron, whose heart skipped a beat. Ron gave Harry encouraging smile and his lips twitched again. _Is Hermione right?  Is he smiling?_

 

“Hey, Harry,” he said again.  Hermione bent close and Neville and the twins joined them as well.  Harry’s gaze bounced around all four of them before settling on Ron.  He was oddly pleased by that.

 

* * *

 

**Sunday December 12th**

 

Time passed in a blur.  Everything was a blur, actually.  Harry wondered what had become of his glasses as he squinted at the tray of food in front of him.  Ron was there, and Hermione, and some other people. He thought he could make out Fred and George’s identical heads of red hair, and he recognized Neville when the boy passed through a beam of warm sunlight.  Other people moved in and out of his field of vision at random but he paid them no mind. He focused on Ron, who was currently trying to bring a spoonful of bland food to his mouth. He couldn’t seem to control his mouth or hands or much of anything at the moment, so it wasn’t much use trying to eat.  He wasn’t hungry anyway. He kept his eyes on Ron, feeling slightly dazed but happy.

 

 _I’m in the hospital wing_ , he realized when he noticed his new pale blue pajamas.  He was out of that room. Out of the ropes. Out of the old red flannel pajamas that Ron had given to him in first year which had nearly disintegrated since he was taken....

 

Taken.  

 

By the Rat.

 

He looked back up at Ron, eyes crossing at the spoon held in front of his face.  He jerked back, feeling unsteady though he was planted firmly against the pillows.  Ron’s mouth moved and a garbled stream of noise reached his ears as if from very far away.  He didn’t understand. It all seemed as if it were coming from underwater. Whatever reached his ears was muddled and strangely muted.  Some time ago, he had heard clearly a whistling that was loud and piercing and coming from all directions, but he couldn’t say what had caused it.

 

Ron looked confused and Harry didn’t know how to tell him.   _The Rat!_ No one was safe while the Rat was around.  Suddenly he was peering through a crack in the wall, a dark room full of wizards and they couldn’t see him...they couldn’t see the Rat...sharp teeth sank into his fingers and Harry snapped his hand back.

 

No, that wasn’t right...he hadn’t been able to do that before.  He blinked. He was in the hospital wing again and Ron was worried.  Harry flexed his hand, dropping his head limply to look at it. He scrutinized the blurry shape of his hand on his lap.   _Where did the Rat go…?_

 

Madam Pomfrey was in front of him again, tipping his chin up.  He found it hard to focus on her. _Where are my glasses?_  Her hair was much longer than he remembered, but just as gray as ever.  He wondered when she'd started wearing green instead of white. Her mouth moved and the noise drifted by his ears uselessly.  His heart was hammering in his chest. They needed to know - know what? He wanted to scream but he didn’t know why. He was on the edge of panic but he couldn’t remember…   _Where are my glasses?  I have to see!_

 

* * *

 

Neville watched Harry’s hand fly up and smack his face.  Ron acted quickly, catching Harry’s hand before he could scratch his own eyes out.  He was distressed, that much was clear, but what had set him off? Was he in pain?

 

Healer Larson backed off and observed from a distance.  Neville wanted her to do something but didn’t know what there was to do.  Harry was struggling in Ron’s grip, trying to paw at his face with one hand.  The other hand lay at his side, seemingly forgotten. It was a lopsided fight.

 

“His glasses!” Hermione cried suddenly.

 

“We’ve already tried those,” Ron argued, pinning Harry’s arm down.  They had indeed brought Harry's glasses that Sunday morning, but he had squinted just the same.  Larson had explained that the lenses would need to be updated when they established better communication with Harry.  After an hour, Harry had awkwardly pulled them off, appearing confused yet again.

 

“Well, he wants them back,” Hermione insisted.  

 

Neville snatched up the glasses from the bedside table and fumbled as he unfolded them.  Harry’s head rocked back clumsily and Ron held him steady so they wouldn’t poke an eye out.  Neville managed to settle the glasses on his nose and Harry stilled instantly. His eyes widened slightly and then squinted again, just like they had that morning.

 

“We’ve already tried your glasses,” Ron sighed sadly, releasing his grip.  Harry squinted at him, looking confused, just like he had that morning. Neville sent a questioning glance to Larson.

 

“His memory should sharpen up with time,” she answered with a grimace.  “After all, he couldn’t hold his head up at all yesterday, and he can today.”

 

“But that's physical,” Hermione argued in a high-pitched voice.  “He’s getting better physically, but he still can’t hear us and he keeps...getting lost, and forgetting, and none of that is improving _at all!”_  Neville couldn’t help but agree, though it made him nauseous to consider what it meant… Was Harry too far gone?

 

“His mental faculties will improve with time,” Larson vowed.  “He just needs more _time_.”

 

Neville wasn’t so sure.  His parents had had twelve years, after all.

 

* * *

 

Harry wanted his friends back.  He had spent far too long surrounded by strangers whose chattering voices washed over him.  They moved around the room without rhyme or reason, throwing Shadows everywhere, poking and prodding.  He didn't care for these people at all. Where were his friends? Ron was no doubt cross with him. He had lost the red flannel pajamas.  They rotted away and now Harry would have to go back to wearing Dudley's old sweatpants for his bedclothes. Where were the red flannel pajamas?  Ron would be cross. He had given those to Harry in first year after Dudley's old sweatpants fell to his ankles one too many times. Where were his friends?  He didn't like these people.

 

A man he had never seen before bent low to stare at him and Harry leaned back against the pillows, trying to put distance between them.  The man had dirty-blond hair that was thinning on top. He suddenly stood upright and pointed a wand at Harry's chest, muttering a curse.  

 

Harry lunged to the side and toppled over the edge of the bed, slamming into the ground in a twisted mess of blankets and pillows.  He scrambled across the wood floor to take cover under the bed, heart pounding as he lay on his stomach. His eyes darted around, trying to find a way out through all the shuffling feet around the bed.   _Where's the door?!_  It was freezing.  His breath was fogging up in front of him, it was dark, he had to get out before the man caught him...  The voices got louder, they were getting closer, they were going to find him -

 

Madam Pomfrey was in front of him now, lying flat on her stomach to peer under the bed.  She held a hand out to him, palm up, and waited for him to take it. Harry thought she may have been smiling, but it was dark under the bed and her face was in shadow.  Harry chanced a look behind him, expecting the man to come around from the other side, but no one was there. The rest of the room remained brightly lit and there was a distinct lack of feet and shins.  The others were gone. He looked back at the shadowy face of Madam Pomfrey, mouth open in disbelief. She had _saved_ him.  He was safe again.

 

He reached out shakily and took her hand.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's hear it for the inevitable hospital scenes, folks! Yaaaay... (Is it boring? I like to read stuff like this but is it too tedious??) The next couple chapters will focus on Harry's recovery in St. Mungo's. We'll check in with Peter and Sirius after Harry gets back to Hogwarts.


	5. Chocolate & Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds a way to communicate. Happy Christmas!

**Tuesday, December 14th**

 

Hermione and Ron came to visit without the others the following week.  Hermione was pleased to note that Harry was indeed improving drastically, albeit that improvement seemed mostly physical.  His head no longer flopped limply around on his neck, he seemed to be in more control of his hands, and Healer Larson reported that he only needed assistance in sitting up when it was morning.  Harry took a multitude of potions every day, most of them in the mornings, and they were warned that it was very rough going until around noon, when the potions had had time to work their magic.

 

Ron insisted on taking over the process of feeding Harry his dinner, so they left Hogwarts immediately after their last class every afternoon and ate whatever St. Mungo's had to offer.  Harry was on a particularly bland diet, which he apparently hated because he would accept only one or two bites of what Ron spooned into his mouth. Then he would stubbornly turn away each time the spoon came within range.  Hermione would have found it funny under other circumstances.

 

Healer Larson had explained that Harry's senses had probably changed beyond just seeing and hearing.  They had determined, with Ron's help, that Harry was severely night-blind. A dim room would appear pitch black to him, explaining his initial fascination with the candle.  They now kept the room bright during the day and Ron insisted that more candles and lanterns were lit at night so Harry would never feel like he was entirely in the dark.

 

What he could hear was more difficult to determine.  He could obviously hear loud sounds, but if it was too loud, he covered his ears and looked to be in pain.  He didn't answer yes or no questions, even if the questions were practically shouted at him, and without his glasses he couldn't read.  

 

Harry had yet to make a sound, though at times it seemed like he desperately wanted to.  Hermione and Ron had caught him with his mouth wide open that Tuesday evening. They had only just arrived and the Healers were finishing another check-up.  Harry was pushing them away, tense and shaking violently, his face was screwed up and he looked like he could have been screaming...but nothing came out. Not a peep.  Healer Larson wouldn't speak on the subject except to say that his attempts to vocalize ended there.

 

Hermione suspected that the bland diet - just porridge and toast tonight - tasted especially bland to Harry.  If his vision and hearing were damaged, then it stood to reason that his senses of taste and smell had changed as well.  She had brought several small jars of spices to improve whatever meal they would try to force on him that night. She carefully selected two jars of brown sugar and cinnamon.

 

"He really hates this stuff," Ron sighed as he handed the untouched bowl of porridge to her.  Hermione caught Healer Larson's eye as she sprinkled a generous amount of each jar into the bowl.  Larson nodded her permission and observed the trio distractedly from her seat at the visitor's table while she jotted a few notes on a piece of parchment.

 

"Hopefully this makes it more tolerable," she replied as she stirred the sugary slop.  She had sweetened the porridge much more than she normally would have for herself and it took a lot of stirring before it seemed even remotely edible again.  She caught Harry's eye and lifted a spoonful to her mouth. "Mmm!" she hummed. Her lips puckered slightly - it was sickly sweet, like eating candy - but she forced a broad smile.  Harry watched her skeptically, then turned his skepticism to the spoon as Ron brought it to his mouth. He reluctantly closed his mouth around the spoon.

 

Hermione's heart soared when Harry's eyes widened comically.  He clumsily grabbed the spoon from Ron, dropping it immediately, and Ron had to lend a hand as he dove for more porridge.  Healer Larson was smiling as she watched Harry try to feed himself. He ate every bit of porridge and then eagerly shoved the plate of plain toast at Hermione, sending it careening off the edge of the tray.  She laughed, slightly giddy as she obliged and sweetened the toast liberally. Harry nibbled on a piece slowly, holding it without Ron's help though he dropped it several times. When Harry finished half of one piece, Ron declared dinner to be finished.  Hermione's experiment had been a rousing success.

 

Healer Larson patted her shoulder proudly when she left the room.

 

* * *

**Thursday, December  16th**

 

Ron leaned forward and propped his Herbology textbook against Harry's hip while he took notes.  Harry was leaning back against his pillows, watching him idly. Sometimes a passive smile would cross Harry's lips and Ron would hold his breath, waiting for him to say something or to find some way to communicate with him.  But Harry remained silent. Mostly he just seemed content to watch him.

 

Harry's arm jerked suddenly, knocking over the book.  Harry looked at his arm in surprise and Ron shot him a reassuring smile, propping the book back up and returning to his homework.  His essay was due the next morning and he hadn't even started the research. Hermione was just as behind on her homework, perhaps more so.  She was meeting with McGonagall about her workload, leaving Ron on his own tonight. One more day of classes and then it would be the start of Christmas holidays.  Between classes, homework, dodging the rest of Gryffindor Tower's relentless questions, and visiting Harry for several hours each evening, Ron was exhausted.

 

His book fell over again and he looked up to see Harry frowning down at his own hand.  It wasn't so unusual for his limbs to move unexpectedly and it seemed to confuse Harry endlessly.  The worst of the muscle spasms had faded, but he shook any time he tried to move with purpose - holding a spoon meant multiple failed attempts and food spilled everywhere.  And when he didn't try to move at all, his limbs would jump or twitch randomly before settling back down. Ron understood that this was a result of the Cruciatus Curse, but Harry couldn't hear their attempts to explain.  The curse attacked nerves and muscle control, and it had clearly caused his friend lasting physical damage. 

 

Every day that passed meant some improvement for Harry, but Ron thought they were seeing that progress begin to level off.  He wondered how much of this would be permanent. Harry seemed to be concentrating as he stared down at the arm that now lay motionless by his hip.  Was he trying to do something? Or was he simply annoyed?

 

Harry was still in there.  Ron could see his best friend in those desperate eyes...but until they found a way to communicate, Harry was lost.  He was stuck in a body he couldn't control. The fiercely independent star Seeker that Ron had known was reduced to a shaking invalid who couldn't lift a spoon…

 

Ron's book went flying off the bed, falling to the floor with a thud.  Ron bent to pick it up, bracing himself with an arm on the mattress, and Harry grabbed his hand.  Ron stopped, watching him curiously. Harry grimaced down at their clasped hands. With great concentration, he managed to turn Ron's hand over and splay the fingers so that his flat palm faced the ceiling.  His whole arm shaking, Harry dragged one finger slowly around Ron's open palm.

 

"Harry?" he whispered, Herbology textbook forgotten.  This was new. Harry had passively accepted affectionate touches during their visits.  He always squeezed their hands in return after they squeezed first. But this was the first time he had reached out, and it was an odd deviation from hand-holding.  His finger hopped and skipped unevenly across Ron's palm, tickling a little, tracing invisible lines.

 

He wasn't holding Ron's hand.  He was drawing on it.

 

Ron shifted to sit on the bed next to Harry while keeping his palm open on the mattress.  He cocked his head and squinted, trying to imagine Harry's perspective... His hand flexed awkwardly and the motion puttered to a stop.  Harry grudgingly pulled back, his fingers clenching into a distorted fist. He looked slightly pained but met Ron's questioning gaze with hopeful eyes.  He frowned when Ron didn't seem to understand, and then tried again. It clearly caused him no small amount of discomfort. Harry bit his lip and held his breath as he drew the shapes carefully, shaking more and more with each passing second.  Ron concentrated, trying to follow the motions.

 

A line and a swoop.  Then three lines - a triangle! - followed by a cross.  The pattern repeated itself, varying slightly as Harry shuddered with the effort.  Ron heard his breath hitch and he finally put his free hand over Harry's, stopping him.  He had the pattern memorized now, though he had no idea what it could mean. He gave Harry a small smile and a nod.

 

"It's okay," he said.  Harry shook his head helplessly and Ron felt immensely unhappy with himself.  Harry was trying to communicate, he was going to great lengths to tell him something, and Ron couldn't figure it out.  Hermione would know. She should be there. He was useless.

 

* * *

**Saturday, December 18th**

 

"Put the bloody parchment away," Ron snapped.  "He obviously can't see the letters and he's just going to get frustrated."

 

George bit back a retort and reminded himself for the umpteenth time that Ron was a third year dealing with a grown wizard's problems.  No one could handle seeing their best friend like this, least of all a bunch of sleep-deprived teenagers.

 

"Not to worry," Fred said stiffly.  "We brought more to try!"

 

George rolled up a scroll of parchment that was covered in large, bold letters.  Setting it aside, he pulled out a fresh scroll and a Muggle pencil. The pencil felt clunky in his fingers, but he and Fred had assumed that a quill and inkwell would be expecting too much, too soon.

 

"What's that?" Ron grumbled.

 

"It's a pencil," answered Hermione.  "The graphite is built-in. It'll be much easier to use than a quill."

 

"Did you put them up to this?" asked Ron suspiciously.  George wanted to throttle him. They were trying to  _ help _ .

 

Hermione pursed her lips.  "They asked, Ronald. I use pencils to draft my essays sometimes, they're much more practical than quills."

 

George wrestled with Harry's right hand.  He struggled to pry his fingers apart enough to fit the pencil between them, only to discover he'd placed it upside down.  Hermione joined him and together they guided Harry's hand - clutching the pencil awkwardly - to the fresh parchment. He could see hope and determination in Harry's expression.  He knew what the pencil was and he clearly understood that they were trying to help him communicate. The parchment with the large letters had failed, but Harry was eager to try again.

 

The pencil dropped three times before Harry was able to press hard enough against the parchment to make a mark.  Then he pressed straight through to the other side, marking up the tray on his lap instead. He grimaced and tried again.  The pencil tracked across the paper, making indistinct lines that alternated between faint and dark as he negotiated the pressure.  Ron never stopped shaking his head.

 

"No, no,  _ no _ ..." he growled.  "That's not it, that's not what he drew.  This isn't working, it's too hard!"

 

Harry dropped the pencil again and his hand flexed.  George instinctively reached out to massage it, knowing a writing cramp when he saw one, but Harry pulled back.  He looked almost as frustrated as Ron.  _ Hormonal gits… _

 

"One more," Fred said, undeterred.  He rummaged in his bag and pulled out yet another fresh scroll as well as a small pot of green paint.

 

George was sitting on the bed next to Harry, supporting him as he leaned over the tray on his lap.  He brought Harry's hand to the pot of paint and Harry dipped a finger in without hesitation, looking hopeful once more.  He smeared the paint across the parchment so eagerly that he accidentally crumpled the edges and Fred had to hold it flat for him while he worked.

 

"That's it!"  Ron, ever the drama queen, was excited now.  "He's doing it! That's what he did Thursday!"

 

The others bent close as Harry leaned back, admiring his work.  It was a mess, to say the least. The parchment was wrinkled and bent, paint was smeared everywhere, and the lines and swoops seemed to overlap nonsensically.  Harry looked quite pleased with himself.

 

"That bit looks like a triangle, or maybe an arrow..." Neville observed as he used a rag to clean the paint from Harry's hand.

 

"And a cross there, look," Ron pointed out at the right side of the parchment.

 

"It's the letter T," cried Hermione in a high-pitched voice.  Harry perked up at the sound and George looked down at him.

 

"Fancy a cuppa, Harry?" he chortled.

 

"I s'pose the triangle could be an A," said Neville slowly.

 

"So what's this first part?" Ron asked.  "Something, then A, then T."

 

"Cat?" George suggested.  "It's got sort of a swoopy part."

 

"But that would make a backwards C," Hermione argued.   _ Well, maybe he's having a tough time with his alphabet _ , he couldn't help but think.   _ He was blind and drooling last week, give the lad a break.   _ "Besides, there's at least one more line right on top of it."  It was difficult to tell which marks had been made on purpose and which were accidental.

 

"What about B?" Neville offered.

 

"Bat?" snorted Ron.  "I don't think he'd want to go through all this effort just to take a dig at Snape."

 

"It could be two letters..." Hermione considered.  

 

They went through the whole alphabet.   _Chat, moat,_ _that,_ and _what_ were quickly ruled out.  Then _eat_ and _meat_ were both discussed, but Harry refused their offer for food.  Neville thought maybe he wanted a _hat_ to wear, but Harry bemusedly pulled off the warm night-cap that was procured for him.  George gave him an enthusiastic _pat_ on the head, but he only sighed dejectedly.  Harry was becoming bored with their discussion until Ron started mimicking the mannerisms of a rat:  he pretended to nibble on something in his hands, chattering his teeth in a way which very much reminded George of Scabbers.  Harry's eyes grew wide and he nodded rapidly, pointing at the parchment.

 

"Rat?" Hermione said, lip curling in disgust.  Harry was grinning widely.

 

"He means Scabbers!" Ron laughed in surprise and then sobered.  "I'm sorry, Harry," he said slowly and clearly, though Harry had yet to understand anything they said in this way.  "Scabbers is gone...he disappeared." 

 

George tensed, waiting for the inevitable row.  Ron and Hermione had been at each other's throats for weeks about Scabbers.  Harry had gone missing around the same time and Ron seemed willing to overlook the plight of his beloved pet when his friend was concerned.  But when they weren't working together for Harry's sake, Ron was still bitter about Hermione's cat apparently scaring off Scabbers.

 

"He can't mean Scabbers," Hermione scoffed.  Ron's ears turned pink in warning, but then Harry thrust his hands at Ron.

 

"What?" Ron asked blankly.  Harry was holding his hands out to him.  Ron took them both uncertainly. Harry gestured to his fingers.  "The scars?"

 

A multitude of thin white lines marred Harry's fingers and hands.  The smaller cuts had already healed into fresh scars by the time Harry had been rescued two weeks ago, and the deeper gouges had only just this week healed into larger pink scars.  They had no idea what these marks could mean. They were slightly resistant to magic, but Dumbledore was not convinced the small wounds were from a spell. Healer Larson theorized they could be from a magical animal or a dark artifact, or perhaps they were only resistant to spells due to the high volume of healing potions Harry had been ingesting lately.  

 

George thought it strange that Black would use a dark artifact to injure Harry's hands in such a strange way when he had tied him up to the ceiling for three weeks….  In fact, the scratches and burns left by the rope seemed to have been more painful by far than the cuts on Harry's hands, but who could really say except Harry? And he couldn't say anything.

 

"Those scars...are from a rat?" Hermione asked hesitantly.  George swallowed uneasily. A rat - gnawing on Harry's hands while he was tied up, unable to get away….  George hated that room in the Shrieking Shack, he hated that Harry couldn't talk, he hated that  _ this _ tidbit was what Harry had fervently wished to reveal to them first.

 

"Harry?" Fred waved a hand to get his attention before continuing.  "Rat - " he pointed at the parchment, "bite - " he pointed to his own bared teeth, "you?" he pointed at Harry's hands.  

 

Harry nodded frantically and started pulling at the hem of his shirt.  Before they fully could process what was happening, Harry had pulled up the shirt to reveal a patchwork of similar scars and cuts on his side.  The marks spanned the lower half of his ribs on one side, down to his hip where they began to fade near the waistband of his pajamas. They were in varying degrees of healing, though the Healers had clearly tended to them already.  One area in particular, where several gashes met at the hip-bone, looked particularly deep and angry; it was just barely scabbed over. George felt dizzy.

 

"Blimey..."

 

Silence reigned as the four stared at their friend in horror.  Harry's earlier excitement began to wilt under their attention.  He looked troubled and pulled his shirt down. He pointed at the parchment again and vaguely gestured around the room.

 

"No rats, Harry," Fred whispered, his voice weak and flat.  "There's no rats here..."

 

Harry didn't hear him.  He repeated the motion, more urgently this time, and no one knew what to do.  He was beginning to look distraught and George put a hand on his arm. He nodded down at Harry with what he hoped was a comforting smile, trying to tell him he understood, but the message was lost and Harry looked utterly defeated.  He flopped back against his pillows and George cleared the bed of the tray and parchment without a word. He was beginning to wish the paint hadn't worked.

 

Hermione muttered something he didn't catch and Ron balked.

 

"He's just worried about Scabbers, Hermione!" he exploded suddenly, voice cracking.  Harry flinched and George wanted nothing more than to use a Silencing Charm on his irate little brother, but the Healers had given them dire warnings about pulling a wand in Harry's presence.  "Those scars are from Black, not some rat!"

 

"He  _ clearly _ just told us it was - "

 

"How would a rat have gotten to his hands?!" Ron shouted, causing Harry to cover his ears.

 

"Ron, cool it," George warned.

 

"He was hanging up in the air!" Ron continued.  "Rats stay on the ground! It was probably some bloody cat, they're always jumping up onto things!"

 

"What are you implying, Ron?" Hermione challenged.

 

"You know what I'm  _ implying _ ," he retorted.  "Crookshanks knew how to get into the Shack.  He's a twisted little bloodthirsty monster, he and Black probably got on famously!"

 

_ "Do you even hear yourself?!" _ she cried angrily.  Harry winced and brought his knees to his chest, hands firmly planted over his ears while he watched them with wide eyes.

 

"Both of you, shut it!" Fred hissed.  

 

"Hermione - " Neville tugged on Hermione's arm but she wrenched herself away, face contorting with rage.

 

"He can't possibly know that Scabbers is missing," she went on.  Ron's ears matched the color of his hair.

 

"He knows Scabbers always rides in my pocket and now he's not, that's why he's asking!"  Harry began shaking next to George. He was in pain.

 

"Neville, cover his eyes," George ordered, standing to make room.  Neville rushed to Harry's side while Hermione and Ron carried on. 

 

"Scabbers doesn't matter right now, not when Harry's like this!"

 

Harry didn't even seem to notice when Neville placed a hand over his eyes.

 

"Of course he matters!  Harry likes Scabbers, even if you never did."

 

George nodded to Fred.

 

"I never had anything against your rat!"

 

The twins pulled their wands.

 

"He was talking to  _ me _ on Thursday,  _ you weren't even here!" _

 

_ "Silencio!"  _ Fred and George cast simultaneously, cutting off the argument.

 

Hermione spluttered silently at Ron's words.  Her eyes filled with angry tears and then she stormed away, dashing through the door and leaving it open.  Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom stared at them from their cozy seating area in the lounge just outside. Ron slammed the door before whipping back around, only to find two angry brothers staring him down.

 

* * *

_ Monday, 20th December, 1993 _

 

_ Headmaster Dumbledore, _

 

_ I write to update you formally on Harry's progress this week, as you requested.  I thank you for allowing his friends to visit so frequently, though I am sure their schoolwork is suffering for it.  I assure you that they are honing valuable skills and I daresay all of them would make fine Healers in the future if they ever learn to control the volume of their voices.  I've been informed that they have reported back to you on their progress with Harry each night. _

 

_ The test results thus far are inconclusive at best.  We know that Harry is night-blind and that his daytime vision has changed as well, necessitating an update to the lenses in his glasses.  What he has endured has also impacted his hearing, leaving him effectively deaf. He appears to have some amount of residual hearing, which picks up loud or high-pitched sounds and often leads to his discomfort.  My recommendation is to keep him away from crowds, where the volume would overwhelm him. He has yet to vocalize and it is clear that his vocal cords have sustained severe damage. Our priority now is to communicate with him enough to fix his glasses.  Once his vision improves, we can further evaluate cognition. _

 

_ My concerns for Harry's mental state are numerous but calculable given further testing over the next few weeks.  He seems easily confused and surprised. He will be awake and aware during an examination or a visit from his friends, comfortable enough for several minutes or even an hour, and then abruptly react in shock as if he hasn't seen anyone come into the room.  This behavior indicates faults in his memory. Instances like this are described by other patients as "time-jumps," in which they seem to blink and they suddenly find themselves in another room with other people doing something else. This is usually a case of the patient's mind failing to record memory in the first place, rather than rapid memory loss.  It's difficult to say how often Harry experiences this phenomenon; I've witnessed indicative behavior no less than a dozen times this week. He's particularly prone to these reactions in the morning, and three out of five of his panic attacks this week have taken place in the morning hours between waking and lunch. We are investigating the cause of these panic attacks.  I suspect flashbacks, which would explain some of his memory lapses as well. _

 

_ Finally, we come to the nerve-damage.  Harry is maintaining a new regimen of potions to control his nerve-damage, muscle sustainment, mental clarity and memory, as well as diet and nutrition.  The strongest potion in his initial treatment, you may recall, was for nerve-damage, and that dose has been diluted into its current form. The seizures have stopped entirely.  The worst of his physical struggle is in the mornings, when he needs two Healers to help him sit up, take his potions, and brush his teeth, and one Healer to stay with him for a few hours while he adjusts to the waking world.  A brief daytime nap is significantly easier for Harry to wake from than a long sleep. _

 

_ My team remains hopeful for the future and I look forward to the day when he leaves my long-term ward.  While his friends believe his improvements are slowing down, I believe we are on the cusp of a breakthrough in communication.  This will open up a whole new world for Harry. _

 

_ Yours respectfully,  
_ _ Healer Jane Larson  
_ _ Janus Thickey Ward  
_ __ St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

 

* * *

Remus sat at his desk to read and re-read the letter that Dumbledore had left for him.  Tears stained the page and he forced himself to read it again. Remus knew all about being trapped in a nightmare, but at least he would always wake up at the end of the full moon.  He was so scared for Harry. Every lonely full moon seemed to press in on him at once as he imagined what state Harry would be in now...

 

Ron and Hermione were indeed extremely behind in their schoolwork, just as Larson predicted, and Remus had passed their abysmal essays without a care.  They wouldn't catch any flack from him when he hadn't the strength to do what they were doing. He couldn't bring himself to visit James and Lily's son, the bright, considerate, fearless boy in his class of third years...the new long-term invalid at St. Mungo's.  It broke his heart to think of Harry in that way. It felt like just yesterday when they had had tea in his office.

 

His stomach twisted when he thought of Harry's boggart.  It wouldn't be a dementor anymore, he had no doubt of that.  As for Remus himself, he thought his next boggart encounter would feature those ropes, swinging…

 

He knew what Dumbledore was playing at when he left this letter on his desk.  It might as well have been an order: visit Harry. And now that school was out for the winter holidays, he had no excuse.  Tomorrow. He would visit tomorrow, at lunch. He wasn't sure he could tolerate seeing Harry at his worst in the morning.

 

* * *

**Saturday, December 25th**

 

Five days passed before Remus ran out of excuses and found himself at St. Mungo's.  There was nothing else he could possibly come up with on Christmas Day, and he owed Harry a gift.  He wasn't sure if he should thank Dumbledore or curse him for forcing this visit.

 

He found the Janus Thickey Ward without trouble.  It was a long, wide ward with comfortable furniture and tables dotted throughout.  Doors lined the walls on one side, large windows on the other. Each door led to a private room.  Dumbledore had told him that the room at the end of the ward was where Harry was staying. The door was propped open.

 

It was a long, terrible walk from the entrance of the ward to the far end.  His heart sank into his stomach when he saw Frank and Alice Longbottom puttering around in slippers.  They were leaving their private room and coming to sit in matching armchairs. His old friends looked happy enough to see him approach, but there was no recognition in their eyes.  He veered away, unable to meet the eyes of the kindly Healer escorting them. She smiled knowingly and nodded to the end of the ward.

 

He approached the open door.  He could see the foot of a bed as well as a table with a few chairs around it.  Several redheads were milling about and the table was piled high with brightly wrapped gifts.  He took a breath to steel himself and moved to step through the doorway, only to bump right into none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, apparently on his way out.  The idiot lingered at the edge of the doorway; he was chattering incessantly, nodding and smiling over his shoulder as if he were carrying on a spirited conversation.  But no sound came from behind him except for a quiet shuffling of feet and a few awkward coughs. Remus cleared his throat, drawing Lockhart's attention to him. 

 

Lockhart flashed him a winning smile.  "I say, how are you, sir?"

 

Remus grimaced.  "I'm well, Mr. Lockhart, and yourself?"

 

"I was just chatting to my good friend here, have you met him?" Lockhart gestured inside the room but didn't move out of the way.  Remus still couldn't see beyond the foot of the bed, though he caught the exasperated look that Arthur Weasley shot him over Lockhart's shoulder.  Lockhart continued as if he hadn't just asked a question. "He's quite famous, you know."

 

"Is he?" Remus clipped.

 

"Oh  _ yes _ ," he said, nodding happily.  "Took down You-Know-Who and his entire army, don't you know?  The famous Boy-Who-Lived! I think I'll take him under my wing, if I have the time.  He's always asking for my advice..."

 

Remus wanted to slug him, but then the matronly Healer from earlier hurried over.

 

"Come along, Gilderoy," she murmured, bustling him away.  

 

"Yes, of course, I must get back to my correspondances..." Remus heard him ramble on and on until a door shut somewhere.  The Healer caught his eye outside Lockhart's private room and nodded once more. He couldn't delay any longer.

 

Remus took a breath and stepped into the room.

 

* * *

It was well after lunch by the time Harry pieced together what was happening.  The last date he firmly recalled was Halloween, when Sirius Black had broken into Hogwarts.  Now it was Christmas, and he had a hoard of visitors!

 

He had realized several things yesterday, after one of the wizard-doctors had successfully fixed his glasses.  His first realization was that his glasses weren't being constantly stolen off his face and misplaced, they simply needed to be updated.  As soon as he understood what they were asking of him - a hand on the green blotch of paint to indicate  _ better _ , a hand on the red blotch of paint to indicate  _ worse _ \- the doctor had made quick work of his glasses and then he could see again.

 

Being granted his vision had quickly led to his second realization:  he was not in the Hogwarts infirmary with Madam Pomfrey. He was in some sort of hospital, he thought, but it was clear to him now that the woman he had mistaken for Pomfrey was someone he had never met.  He felt a little embarrassed by his mistake and he hoped nobody found out. He did wonder why he wasn't at Hogwarts...was he being thrown out? What had he done this time? Maybe he had been gone for so long, had missed so many Potions assignments, that they simply couldn't allow him to continue.  That must be it. It had been ages since he had seen the Potions classroom, after all. He hoped he was allowed to stay here rather than be sent back to the Dursleys.

 

The third realization was that something was wrong.  He couldn't...focus. It was like there was static on the radio, but the radio was in his head.  He could see things clearly now, as long as the room was bright enough, and yet things still eluded him.  Thoughts drifted out of his head as quickly as they came, visitors disappeared as suddenly as they arrived, his breakfast was placed on his lap and then it was gone.  He could see now, but somehow...everything was still fuzzy.

 

Ron was glaring at Hermione, his movements stilted.

 

Hermione was looking anywhere but in Ron's direction.  She kept pushing away imaginary locks of hair, even though she sported a tight braid.

 

They were angry, that much was clear.  Harry didn't understand what had happened.  He remembered something a while back - he couldn't say when exactly - when they were screaming at each other.  They didn't seem to be angry with him, but he wished they would relax. It was Christmas, after all. Mrs. Weasley had handed out her Weasley jumpers and Harry found he loved how it felt to wear the navy blue jumper over his pajama top.  The sleeves fit close to his arms, gently compressing his ever-tingling skin, and it was like a warm hug that calmed his jittery limbs. He wondered how anyone could be angry while wearing a Weasley jumper.

 

Mr. Weasley moved toward the open door.  A man entered and the others made room for him.  Gray streaks ran through his hair and bone-white scars crossed his face.  Mrs. Weasley took something from him and added it to the table while the man looked around the room.  Looked at him. He took a seat beside the bed, and when he leaned close to pull his chair up, Harry caught a whiff of chocolate and ginger.  

 

He blinked.

 

He was secure in someone's arms, leaning against their chest, breathing in the scent of an old knitted sweater.  It smelled warm and sweet. Humming reached his ears, a humming that reverberated through their chest and into his head, vibrating pleasantly, lulling him to sleep.  They rocked back...and forth...back...and forth…. He was warm and content and sleepy.

 

Harry blinked down at the bed sheets covering his knees and felt a sense of vertigo.  The comforter was moving, back and forth, back and forth… No,  _ he _ was moving.  He was rocking in place on the bed in a hospital room, surrounded by people.  Professor Lupin was watching. Harry stopped abruptly, embarrassed by Lupin's gaze, but also felt a strange sense of loss when the movement ended….

 

Lupin!

 

He smiled happily at the professor.  He wished he could think of something to say.  He wished he could say anything at all, but his voice wouldn't work.  So he simply grinned and accepted Lupin's friendly pat on his arm. Lupin smiled back.  Harry wondered if he should rustle up some tea. Was he the host now? He hardly felt like a host.  Where was he exactly…? This didn't look like Lupin's office.

 

Mrs. Weasley was speaking loudly to Ron and Harry's attention was drawn to them, though he couldn't understand a word.  When he looked back to his left, he was surprised to find Lupin there - right, he was already there, Harry had seen him come in.  Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew. There were so many people in here...it was easier to say who  _ wasn't _ here.  Snape wasn't here.  Dudley wasn't here. The Rat wasn't here.

 

The Rat.

 

Had they found the Rat?  Harry knew they were all in danger until the Rat was found.  He remembered distinctly the moment his friends had deciphered his message.  He remembered a sense of pride. But did they really understand…? Yes, he decided.  Yes, George at least had understood. Fred, too. Ron and Hermione had started fighting, so he couldn't say for sure what they knew.  And Neville had been upset about something as well. But the twins definitely knew and he took comfort in that. The Weasleys would be safe.

 

Lupin was saying something to him, but his words drifted away.  Harry nodded anyway, wishing he could do more. But his body wouldn't obey.  His mouth wouldn't even begin to form the words in his head. Why, though? He knew it had something to do with the tingling in his skin, the pins-and-needles feeling that enveloped him each morning and night and made the simplest things as difficult as climbing a mountain.  Something was wrong.

 

Something was in front of Harry's face.  He unfolded his legs and opened his hands to accept a brightly wrapped gift.  Mrs. Weasley was smiling warmly at him and he was suddenly overcome with guilt...he hadn't gotten anyone anything for Christmas.  He couldn't accept this gift. He felt his face burn in embarrassment and he looked down, fingering the wrapping paper, utterly ashamed.  How could he explain? It was Halloween, he thought he would have plenty of time, but then the room, and the Rat, and then it was dark, and now it was Christmas!

 

His vision swam and he knocked his glasses right off his face as he tried to wipe the tears away.  He felt helpless and stupid. Who did he think he was, accepting any gifts when he had nothing to give in return?  He was an ungrateful, free-loading brat, just like the Dursleys said. He never thought of anyone else. Why couldn't he do anything right?

 

The smell of chocolate and ginger invaded his senses again and he felt someone fold their arms around him.  He leaned into the touch. It felt nice. He didn't deserve their affection, but he was thankful all the same.  It felt so nice.

 

He blinked.  The warm arms were gone.  An assortment of items lay across the bed and the floor was littered in wrapping paper.  Lupin sat to his left, watching him closely, and the others were laughing at something. Ron's hair was lime green in color.  Fred and George were bowing. Harry grinned. This felt familiar. Familiar was good.

 

Lupin pressed something into his hands and Harry looked down to find a humbly wrapped box.  He carefully picked at the edges, feeling slightly awkward. He hadn't even made Lupin a card and yet Lupin had gone through the trouble of buying and wrapping a gift for Harry….  It was a box of chocolates. Harry's nose was filled with the smell the moment he opened the lid and his mouth began to water. He smiled his thanks and offered Lupin the first choice, which he took graciously.  Harry selected a piece as well and popped it into his mouth. It tasted heavenly. Sweet and smooth, and when it broke apart, warm caramel oozed out.

 

Inspired, he offered the chocolates to everyone else.  He hadn't anything else to give and he desperately wanted to tell them how much it meant that they were spending Christmas with him.  Mrs. Weasley declined but Ron took one without hesitation, and soon the box was half-empty. Harry took a second piece, savoring the flavor and the happy expressions around the room.

 

A long thin package was placed on his lap and Lupin lifted the box of chocolates out of his grip.  Harry hoped that Lupin didn’t mind him sharing the chocolates…. Ron looked anxious and Harry frowned up at him...was something wrong?  But his friend simply gestured to the package in his lap. 

 

_ “Open it,” _ Ron mouthed, his eyes bright.  Harry couldn’t find a name on the package anywhere.  Who was this from? Was it even for him? He hesitated, but then Ron grabbed his hand and used it to tear open the wrapping.

 

A Firebolt.  An actual  _ Firebolt _ was in his lap!  Harry began to lift it with trembling hands and it amicably floated a few inches in the air.  The occupants of the room fell still, all eyes were on the magnificent broom. It was sleek and shiny, beautifully crafted.  Harry closed a hand over the shaft, marveling at the silky smooth finish. He was in awe.

 

And then Lupin was lifting it out of his grasp.  Harry shot him a curious look, wanting to admire the top-of-the-line broom, wanting to stare at it until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.  Lupin was frowning. Something was wrong. It hadn’t been meant for Harry...he knew it was too good to be true. Still. It had been nice to hold a Firebolt.

 

Hermione pulled a notepad out of her pocket and Lupin scribbled something hastily before showing Harry.  The words seemed to weave in and out of focus at first, but then they steadied.

 

_ Do you know who would give you a broom? _

 

Harry shook his head.  So it  _ was _ meant for him?

 

_ Did you mention Quidditch to Black? _

 

Black?  Who was Black?  Harry pointed at the name...it seemed so familiar but just out of reach.  Who was Black...?

 

_ Sirius Black _ , Lupin elaborated.  Oh - the convict. Halloween.  Sirius Black broke into Gryffindor Tower.  He was after him...no, that wasn’t it. The Rat was after him.  The Rat was scared of Sirius Black.

 

Harry read the question again.  Did he mention Quidditch to Black…?  He had never spoken to Sirius Black, so he couldn’t have exchanged flying tips.  Harry shook his head.

 

_ Did you talk about flying or brooms? _ Lupin insisted.

 

Harry shook his head again.  His eyes were beginning to ache and he wanted to stop reading.  He thought looking at the Firebolt again would be plenty soothing, but the broom was out of sight.  He glanced around the room, but found only pale Weasleys watching them, Hermione biting her nails, Neville picking at his own Weasley jumper, and Lupin.  No Firebolt.

 

Harry pointed at the word  _ brooms _ and gestured around the room, wondering where it had gone.  Lupin simply shook his head and began to write again. Harry shoved the notepad away, not bothering to read it.  He was sick of reading. He wanted the broom back. Lupin pushed the notepad at him insistently and Harry sighed, relenting.

 

_ We don’t know who it’s from.  Could be cursed. Need to run some tests. _

 

It took ages to read the message.  The letters swam across the page, the words blending into each other.  But Harry understood. He remembered riding a cursed broom in his first year and could admit that he had no desire to repeat the experience.  Besides, he had yet to make it to the loo yet - the doctors were still using a dreadfully uncomfortable spell to help him with that. It could be some time before his body cooperated enough for him to mount a broom.  He could wait. He nodded and Lupin seemed to relax marginally. 

 

Harry spotted the chocolates on his bedside table and reached for another piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hesitated in posting this chapter because it seems an awfully long time to go without checking in on Peter or Sirius, but I couldn't think of a way to include them without forcing it. We'll see them again very soon!


	6. Gryffindor Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We check in with Padfoot and Wormtail, and Harry makes some progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since my last update, a whole twelve days! Well, in my defense, I was wrapping up another WIP and it's hard to work on anything else when you're on a roll with those final few chapters. Enjoy!

**Saturday, December 25th:  Night**

 

Padfoot’s form was reasonably more comfortable than Sirius, but he missed thumbs and speech.  And drinking - canine kidneys were shit.  A nice fifth of Ogden’s would keep him warm in the tunnels under Hogsmeade.  He snorted.   _ Dogden’s _ .  Nice.

 

A flash of orange caught the light as it passed under a grate overhead and Padfoot lifted his head lazily to greet the cat.  Crookshanks, that girl had called him.  He was a good cat. Part Kneazle, no doubt.  Clever enough to take a key, withdraw his money, and purchase the Firebolt.  Actually… Padfoot eyed the cat warily.  Was he a cat?  Or another animagus?  Surely if he were a wizard, he would have said something the first or seventieth time Sirius had transformed.  Camaraderie and all that.  Animals and animagi bonded.  Or they fought to the death, that was the other option.

 

Crookshanks butted his furry head against Padfoot’s, then rubbed his fluff all over his snout, filling his nostrils with warm, itchy fur.  He snuffed, but made no attempt to move.  That would be criminal.

 

Padfoot’s form was reasonably more in tune with his instincts than Sirius.  He played - the Marauders could attest to that. He hunted - Wormtail would soon attest to that.  He protected - Harry, he hoped with every fiber of his being, was in a state of mind to attest to that.  Upon reflection, Sirius (the man) realized that perhaps sending a top of the line racing broom to a thirteen year old invalid at St. Mungo’s was not a balanced decision.  But Padfoot didn’t seek balance.  Padfoot sought Harry’s happiness and safety.  What could make him happier than flying?  What could be safer than a brand new broom?

 

_ One with reasonable restrictions, you dumb mutt, _ Lily’s voice called to him.   _ Not the fastest broom on the market! _

 

Sirius could drown his guilt and regret later with a fifth of Ogden’s.  Padfoot was plenty pleased with himself, and pleased with Crookshanks for making it happen.

 

Crookshanks had barely settled against his side before he perked up again, orange ears swiveling every which way.  Padfoot lifted his head, peering about.  Something was here.

 

Precious little light reached their grimy, cramped tunnel through the grate.  Theirs was a storm drain, not a proper sewer, but there was a tiny offshoot down the way that led to a sewer if the smell was any indication.  The offshoot may have been intentionally designed by some long-dead wizard...  Or it was a recent addition by a certain animagus that Padfoot wanted to fight to the death.  Storm drains and sewers were separate for a reason.  And he was willing to bet that the hole in the wall was rat-sized for a reason.

 

A scratching noise, just barely audible to Padfoot’s ears.  But where?  It came from everywhere and nowhere.  They both stood.  Padfoot towered over Crookshanks but somehow the cat took up more space.  The scratching was joined by a tell-tale squeak and Padfoot lurched unsteadily, paws flexing, blood pounding, ready to  _ hunt _ .  To eat.  To protect.

 

Crookshanks flicked his tail, his eyes dilating to full black, and Padfoot zeroed in on the target.

 

With a powerful propulsion from his rear legs, Padfoot gave chase.  The rat scurried fast, faster than a normal rat might go, and he scrambled after it.  They raced through the tunnel and the rat passed the offshoot - the only place Padfoot couldn’t follow, the fool - and zig-zagged ahead.  He dove forward and missed, smashing his snouth against the damp stone floor and leaving a smear of saliva behind.

 

Lungs burning, spit flying, claws bending under the force of his weight pressing into the stone floor, Padfoot saw the rat hesitate at a frigid puddle up ahead.  He leaped - 

 

Claws and teeth tore the rat apart in seconds.  A tiny little spin snapped in his mouth as he ripped it from the rat’s body.  A terrified squeal was cut short and Padfoot continued tearing into the little creature.  Blood, fur, bones, the leathery tail swished around in his mouth as he shredded his way to vengeance.  Crookshanks padded up to his side, eyeing him reproachfully, and a little bit of Sirius’s sense caught up to him then.

 

He spat out the remains of the rat.  Crookshanks helped him pick it apart until they’d counted up the broken feet.

 

Ten toes.

 

Well.  At least he got a Christmas snack.

 

* * *

 

**Sunday, December 26th**

 

Harry stared down at the notepad, willing the letters to settle on the page.  The words tended to drift and sway unless he concentrated very hard, but reading was easier today than it had been yesterday.  He took heart in that.

 

_ Did he use Imperius? _

 

Imperius.  That seemed familiar... _ very _ familiar.  But he couldn't place it.  He considered the question as he stared up at the wizard who was asking it.  A fierce man.  Scars covered every inch of his face, a chunk of his nose was missing, he walked with a limp, and a magical eye spun around freely in his head.  It made Harry slightly dizzy to watch, but it was infinitely worse when both eyes were pinned on him.  He squirmed uncomfortably.

 

The Imperius.  It was a spell that took great effort, he knew that much.  But what was it?  Had the man used it on him?  How did he know how much effort it took?  Harry bit his lip. He rocked slightly side to side.  He might otherwise have been embarrassed to do this with a room full of people watching him, but he hardly knew it was happening.  

 

_ The air was frigid and his ragged breath fogged up in front of him. _

 

_ "Imperio." _

 

Eye Man was staring at him with both eyes.

 

_ Weightlessness, peace.  The pain lifted.  The hunger eased.  There was only peace. _

 

Lupin placed a hand over his arm.  He looked concerned, but Harry didn't know why.  Everything was fine.  He would sleep soon, that was good.

 

_ "Do you want to sleep now, Harry?" _

 

He nodded.   _ Yes, please...please let me sleep… _ .

 

His eyes flew open.  When had they closed?  Lupin was upset.  His voice was raised and his muscles were rigid.  Harry felt the pressure on his arm increase, the pins and needles in his skin flared angrily, and he withdrew.  Lupin looked at him in surprise, and...fear?  He wanted Imperio to come back.  It was so much better than Crucio.  It solved all his problems.  He wanted Imperio.

 

A notepad was in his lap.

 

_ Did he use Imperius? _

 

Harry nodded.  Some discussion followed and Harry was left to his thoughts.  He was sleepy.  The notepad was taken from him and soon replaced, another question written.

 

_ Did he use Confundus? _

 

This was going to take ages.  It seemed these people were going to go through every spell known to wizardkind.  He shook his head, annoyed, barely considering the question.  He didn't know what Confundus was and he didn't care.  He just wanted to sleep.  Or see his friends.  Or go for a fly on the Firebolt.  Anything but read endless questions on a tiny notepad.

 

Lupin was speaking animatedly, his features tense, his brow furrowed.  He snatched the notepad out of his lap and chucked it unceremoniously at the chest of a tall dark-skinned wizard who stood at the foot of the bed.  Eye Man summoned it back the next moment and scrawled yet another note, completely unbothered by the irate professor.

 

_ Did he give you potions? _

 

Harry shook his head.

 

_ Did he try to convert you? _

 

Convert him?  What did that mean?

 

_ Dark Mark? _

 

Harry considered the new words, completely befuddled.  Dark Mark...the whole room was dark, and it had only gotten darker...what mark was he supposed to have seen in those conditions?

 

_ Death Eater? _

 

Harry perked up, placing a hand on the notepad before it could be snatched away again.

 

_ "...what's a Death Eater?" _

 

_ "A devoted follower of the Dark Lord." _

 

_ "You mean a servant?" _

 

_ "Yes." _

 

A gnarled finger entered his line of sight and tapped the notepad impatiently, bringing Harry's attention back to the initial question:   _ Did he try to convert you? _  Harry shook his head.  No.  No, that was never on the table.  The Rat only had one objective and it was to deliver Harry right into Voldemort's hands, not to enlist him into slavery.

 

The mood of the room changed at his response, but he couldn't say what was different...  Did these people think the Rat had convinced him to join Voldemort?  Harry had gotten himself kidnapped and failed to get away time and time again… Did Dumbledore really think so lowly of him that he was now under suspicion?  He fought a basilisk last year, he took down Tom Riddle, defended the Sorcerer's Stone, but he couldn't escape simple Muggle ropes… He had to admit, it must have seemed suspect.  It must have seemed like he hadn't wanted to get away.

 

Harry grimaced.  How could he explain to these people that he had tried, he had really tried?  The ropes were so tight, they tore at his skin, even through his sleeves...  He had never been so weak with hunger, even at Privet Drive.  And he had been unarmed - except for that brief time, before he ran into a dementor and fainted and woke up back in that blasted room.  He bit his lip, suddenly filled with self-loathing and sour dread.  He had lost all credibility with the headmaster, he realized.  And he was dismally behind in his studies to boot.  He couldn't even hold a Muggle pencil but clearly the future of his Hogwarts education would depend on catching up to his peers quickly.  If he was even allowed back into the school...they thought he was a Death Eater now, after all.

 

_ "It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities," _ Dumbledore had told him last spring.  

 

Harry had not chosen to be taken by the Rat in the dead of night.  He had not chosen to be rendered useless by losing his wand.  But he had chosen to leave the Rat sleeping in the bed once he had gotten the wand back...as a third year, he didn't know many defensive spells, but he knew that a simple levitation charm or body bind could have prevented the man from following him.  And however docile he felt when that Imperius spell had been placed on him, deep in his heart, Harry knew he had a choice whether or not to comply.  And he had chosen to comply, every single time.

 

He swiped at his eyes, bumping his glasses, and tried to school his features into something more neutral.  Less weak. He was a Gryffindor.  If Minerva McGonagall could strike the fear of Merlin into anyone while dressed in her tartan night-robe, Harry could sit here and face these questions with dignity.  He was not a Death Eater.  He had tried his best and his best wasn't good enough.  For a Hogwarts student, that should have meant a lost Quidditch game, but instead it had been three weeks in hell.  But Harry had come out of it with the help of his friends and he was  _ not _ a Death Eater and he would catch up to the other third years and finish Hogwarts.  Anyone who doubted him could just go suck a dragon egg.

 

Another damn question was written on the page.

 

_ Did you ever leave the Shack? _

 

What on earth was the Shack?  Was that the building he was in?  It was rather rickety, like a bloated garden shed.  Harry nodded firmly.  He had left once.  He had been so close - and then the dementor.

 

_ Did he bring you to a cave? _

 

That one was out of nowhere.  Some of these questions made no sense whatsoever to Harry and he couldn't be sure that it was because they were irrelevant; his memory was full of holes.  He shook his head, hoping he was right.  He didn't remember any cave...but it had been so dark and cold sometimes, how could he say for sure?

 

_ Did a dog ever take you anywhere? _

 

Harry cocked his head, suddenly recalling the huge, hulking form of a black dog.  Odd that they would ask about a dog when they should have been talking about a rat.  He shook his head to answer the question but pointed at the notepad before they could take it away to write another question.   _ Dog _ .  Lupin stiffened, the grip on his arm tightening.

 

_ The dog's nose was right next to him.  Harry met gray eyes through the crack in the wall. The dog began barking madly and Harry couldn't look away from those eyes.  The dog scratched at the wall, yelping and barking, and Harry felt his heart soar. _

 

_ The room flashed red as a spell crashed into the corner, just missing the dog.  The animal backed up, darted under the bed, clearing Harry's view of the door. Lupin! _

 

_ "HE'S HERE!" Lupin roared.  There was a flurry of movement behind the professor and suddenly the room was filling with wizards again.  It was chaos.  There was a pop, a crack, the bed was blown apart, and when Harry looked under the debris again, he found that the dog had disappeared. _

 

Harry peered up at Lupin, who was looking at him strangely.  Harry pointed at the word again and pulled his lips into a hesitant smile.  Lupin balked but Harry gestured insistently at the word.  The dog was a friend.  Well, as friendly a face as Harry had seen in those three weeks.  The dog had found Harry in the wall while everyone else overlooked him.  Admittedly, it had clearly held a grudge against the bedding, which was shredded under huge teeth and claws, but he couldn't forget those gray eyes.  Harry found that it was terribly awkward to smile up at someone who was staring at him in mild horror, but he smiled nonetheless.  The dog was a friend.  A terrifying, violent, beastly friend who had probably just been excited to find his next meal.  Still.  Better than Aunt Marge's Ripper. 

 

And better than the Rat, which had actually sank its teeth into him.

 

Harry wondered if Fred and George had told anyone else about the Rat.  It was important that these people knew.  They were looking in all the wrong places.  The number of times Harry had read the name "Black" on their lips was infuriating.  He hadn't even met Black.  His captor was someone else.  And the dog was just a stray.  It was the Rat they should worry about.

 

* * *

**Monday, December 27th**

 

Wormtail didn't require much food, so any little bit was enough to keep the wizard within him sustained.  And if it was a slice of pizza - pepperoni! - well, who was he to complain that it had come from the gutter next to an unconscious Muggle?  He could have done without the beer soaking through the crust, but it was a whole slice and it was perfect.

 

He didn't dare move about the city without the cloak and without a wand.  He cursed himself for losing Harry's wand while trying to escape Padfoot's jaws.  Wincing, he pushed away the memory of Macnair's hoarse screams.  It was better to drop everything for a chance to get away than to face those teeth, of course, but now he had no wand.

 

After escaping Hogsmeade - too many Aurors, and Padfoot was still on the prowl - he made for London.  Weeks later, he was still without a wand.  Witches and wizards, on the rare occasion he could spot them, kept their wands secured under several layers of winter robes.  Not like it was years ago, when everyone had wand holsters for easy access in case of attack.  There was something to be said for the good old days.

 

And so Wormtail was on a new mission.  Or rather, Peter was on a new mission while Wormtail longed for a snooze.  Peter would return to his old territory; that method had almost always served him well.  He would return to where he knew the ins and outs, the nooks and crannies, the patterns of behavior that would procure him a wand.  A proper wand that responded to him, he knew from experience, because he'd borrowed it once or twice in the past.  It would change the game.  

 

Padfoot had teeth, but Sirius didn't have a wand.

 

Wormtail powered through the urge to doze after a good meal.  He could sleep later, after he got Peter to the Burrow.

 

* * *

**Tuesday, December 28th**

 

Neville fixed his Gryffindor tie once more, feeling decidedly out of place.  Ron was sporting a maroon jumper knitted by his mother; Hermione wore an argyle vest over a periwinkle shirt; the twins were dressed in heinously bright and shiny robes which perhaps had once been school uniforms but had been subjected to so many stray charms and spilled potions that they now more closely resembled phoenix plumage.  Neville wore what he always wore to visit his parents: his school uniform with the Gryffindor tie proudly on display.

 

Except he didn’t feel proud now, surrounded by his fellow Gryffindors who had chosen to stay as far away from their uniforms as possible while they were on holiday.  He felt like a prat.  But still...Neville hoped a small part of his parents would recognize the Gryffindor emblem and perhaps make the connection.  Their son was a  _ Gryffindor _ , just like them.

 

Harry was dressed in the usual hospital pajamas and slippers.  Instead of the warm wool robe worn by some of the other long-term patients in the ward, Harry wore his own navy blue Weasley jumper over his pajamas, as he had since Christmas day.  He was settled on a low settee between Ron and Hermione, arms crossed over his stomach, staring intently at the coffee table in front of them.  Harry had begun walking again just a few days ago.  This morning, they had successfully helped him walk out of his room, down the full length of the ward, and over to the seating area near the front door.  He was shaky and unbalanced, and he needed someone on either side of him as he went, but Harry was  _ walking _ .

 

“He’ll love this one - watch!”

 

Neville looked on as Fred and George - sitting cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the coffee table - demonstrated a variety of trick sweets, much to the bemusement of Harry.  With each pop of noise or flash of color given off by the sweets, Harry seemed caught between confusion and happy surprise.

 

“Skip the trick wand.”

 

“He’s better with wands now,” Ron protested.  “Just so long as you don’t point it at him.”

 

“Nah,” either Fred or George replied.

 

“It’s not ready anyway,” said the other.

 

“Alright then…” Ron gave in, eyeing the collection of tricks.  “What’s this one do?”

 

Neville turned his attention back to his parents.  Frank and Alice Longbottom were sipping tea from their customary mugs.  A violently pink mug with creeping, crawling insects painted on the sides had been Frank’s cup of choice since before Neville was born.  Occasionally a great big painted beetle would scuttle over the rim and dip into the tea.  A gag gift from a dear friend, his grandmother had explained once.  His mother’s favorite mug was forest green with a sprinkling of golden flecks drifting down the sides like snow.  It was always warm, and it reminded Neville of the Hogwarts greenhouses in winter.  His grandmother had no idea where the cup had come from but the whole ward knew that Alice Longbottom would never part with it.

 

His mum offered a small smile as she peered at him over the rim of her mug.  He smiled widely back, trying not to analyze her vacant expression.  Harry didn’t look like that.  Harry was silent but his face was full of life.  By comparison, his parents seemed...empty.

 

“What’s he keep looking at?” one of the twins asked, peering over their own shoulder to follow Harry’s gaze.   _ He’s looking at us _ , Neville realized.  He shifted awkwardly as he stood between his parents, who were seated in cushy armchairs.

 

“Erm - Harry?” Hermione asked, touching his arm lightly.  Harry turned his head slightly toward her in acknowledgement but didn’t look away from the Longbottoms.  His brow was furrowed, his eyes unblinking.   _ Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to stare? _ Neville thought waspishly.

 

Harry lumbered to his feet, teetering dangerously until Ron and Hermione steadied him.  Then he began shuffling slowly around the edge of the coffee table.  Ron and Hermione guided him carefully, each grasping an elbow and watching his feet nervously while Harry continued to stare ahead.  The Longbottoms were only ten feet away, just a few easy steps, but it took Harry nearly a full minute to shuffle over to their chairs.  Neville stood a little straighter and stepped forward, thinking he should shield his parents from him.  The Longbottoms weren’t exactly shy or bothered by company, but Harry had a strange look in his eye that made Neville uncomfortable - 

 

Harry reached out a steady hand as if to touch Frank’s arm but only gestured vaguely at him instead.  Frank continued to sip his tea in tiny increments, not even acknowledging the others.  Harry frowned down at the man, then at Alice, a look of horror creeping over his features.

 

“What is it?” Hermione whispered.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“You okay, mate?” Ron asked.

 

Neville grimaced as Harry, leaving Ron and Hermione behind, shuffled closer to Alice, who looked up at him with mild curiosity.  Suddenly, Harry’s hand darted out and latched onto her wrist, causing the tea to spill into her lap.  Neville’s heart leapt in his chest at the sight of Harry’s white-knuckle grip and his mother’s frown.  Hermione gasped and pried Harry’s hand loose, and then Neville shoved them both back roughly, sending Harry stumbling into Ron.

 

“Mum?” he muttered lowly, his voice shaking.  “Are you okay?  Did he hurt you?  Are you burned?”  He snatched a napkin off the side-table and began mopping up the spilled tea.  Thankfully, she didn’t seem to be in any pain and the tea wasn't especially hot…  But what had that been about?

 

"What the hell, mate?" blurted Ron.

 

"He could've hurt her!" Neville snapped, but darting a glance back at the trio, he saw that Ron was staring oddly at Harry rather than accusingly at Neville.

 

"She alright?" one of the twins asked, stepping between Harry and the Longbottoms.

 

"What's happened here?" a matronly woman - Healer Wise - set down a tea tray just outside Lockhart's door and hurried over to investigate.  The other twin explained the situation in murmured tones and Neville turned back to his mother, continuing to clean up the tea as best he could with the sopping wet napkin.  "Oh Neville dear, allow me."  With a flick of her wand, the spilled tea dried up but the pajamas remained stained.

 

"He grabbed her," he muttered darkly, still unable to face the others.  With Healer Wise's help, he rolled up the sleeve of her wool robe and undid the button on her pajama cuff.  His mum watched them with a frown and Neville could feel the eyes of Harry and the other Gryffindors boring into his back.

 

"It won't bruise," Healer Wise pronounced, fixing the sleeve in place once more.  "I can't imagine he has enough strength to do any damage anyway."  Neville nodded but didn't rise from his kneeling position, unable to turn away from the distinct frown on his mother's face.  "Up you get, Alice, let's put you into some clean clothes."  Neville scuttled back to help bring his mother to her feet. Together with the Healer, Alice shuffled through the door of her private room, leaving Frank to sip his cool tea with Neville at his side.

 

He finally turned to face the others, his ears burning.  With a flare of anger, he saw that Harry was now staring at his father.

 

"Neville, he didn't mean - " Hermione started.

 

_ "He can't do that!" _ he hissed vehemently.  "He...he just can't!"

 

"His motor control - "

 

"I know, dammit!" Neville growled.  Frank stopped sipping his tea and Neville took a breath, trembling.  When he spoke again, his voice was shaky and low.  "Y-you keep him under control then.  He can't come after them like that.  He could've hurt her!"

 

Hermione nodded, her eyes wide and sad.  Ron was still holding Harry after catching him when Neville shoved him back.  Ron's hold was just as well because Harry was trying to step forward again, that same look of horror on his face.

 

" _ What _ , Harry?" one of the twins said, stepping in front of Harry and placing his hands on his shoulders to prevent him from reaching Frank.  Neville stood directly in front of his father, his heart beginning to race again.

 

Harry's eyes were wide behind his glasses as he stared at Frank and his lips were slightly parted, revealing clenched teeth.  His chest was heaving. He looked like he had just come face to face with a werewolf.  He raised a hand and pointed in Neville's direction, indicating Frank.  He looked at the twin in front of him and began tugging on his jumper.

 

"Err...do you want a robe like Frank, Harry?" Ron ventured, an arm around Harry's waist and a hand on his elbow.  Neville started.  Harry had grabbed Alice by her arm and stared at the thick wool sleeve.

 

"Go get his robe, George," Fred said, still holding Harry by the shoulders.  George darted away to Harry's private room.

 

"He hates that robe," Hermione protested.  "He never wears it."

 

"It's too scratchy," agreed Neville, his anger beginning to fade.

 

"Well, sometimes he has to be reminded," Ron persisted.  "Like with his glasses?"

 

George returned, shaking out the unused hospital-issued robe.  The moment he approached Harry with it, however, the boy lashed out, pulling away and nearly tripping over his own feet to avoid it.  His horrified expression intensified ten-fold.  George backed off, at a loss.

 

"Maybe he thinks...they don't like  _ their _ robes?" Hermione suggested.  "Maybe he thinks they hate it as much as he does?"  A ghost of a smile graced her lips.  Neville rolled his eyes.  Typical Harry, always the bloody hero.  Except this time, the villain was hospital pajamas.

 

Neville stepped forward when Harry turned pleading eyes on him.  Twisting and wrenching, his face contorted in what might have been pain, Harry managed to tear himself away from Ron and Fred, stumbling right into Neville's arms.  Fred helped to set Harry right again, and then Neville suddenly found himself yanked forward by his neck.  Harry was holding his Gryffindor tie in that white-knuckle grip, pulling on it desperately.

 

"Oi, ease up, mate," he chuckled weakly.  Healer Wise was right, Harry wasn't particularly strong, but it didn't take much force to pull someone around by the neck.

 

Fred tried to pry Harry's fingers loose just as Hermione did earlier, but Harry yanked on the tie harder and Neville grunted.  Harry looked at him startled for a moment and then let go of the tie, freeing him abruptly.  Neville rubbed the back of his neck where his tie had dug into him, feeling oddly like a dog let loose from his leash.  Harry then lifted the bottom of his own jumper and pulled at the pajama shirt underneath.

 

"Oi, Harry - we don't need a strip tease in here!" George barked in laughter, dropping the wool robe to place his hands over Harry's.  Harry scowled at him and then grabbed Neville's tie again.

 

"Oh!" Hermione squeaked suddenly.  Neville, choking slightly, peered over Harry's head to see her eyes shining brightly.  "Oh,  _ Harry _ ..."

 

"What?" George snorted, still wrestling Harry's other hand away from his pajamas.

 

"George, stop it!" she said, her voice wavering.  George let go, raising his hands in surrender.  Harry pulled at his pajama shirt just as he pulled on Neville's tie, looking between them, shaking his head, breathing like a winded hippogriff.  

 

With a jolt, Neville realized:  Harry understood.

 

He had made the connection Neville's parents had failed to make.  He understood what it meant for Neville to wear his Gryffindor tie.  More importantly, he understood what it meant for he himself to wear St. Mungo's pajamas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we'll see Harry back at Hogwarts. We've been looking at the story day-by-day or every few days so far, but once he's at Hogwarts, we can jump through the year at random intervals to get to our showdown.
> 
> Now please excuse me while I go into the corner to chant the word "pacing" to myself...


	7. Gotta Get Back to Hogwarts!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I gotta get back to Hogwarts  
> I gotta get back to school  
> I gotta get myself to Hogwarts  
> Where everybody knows I'm cooool
> 
> Back to witches and wizards, and magical beasts  
> To goblins and ghosts and to magical feasts  
> It's all that I love, and it's all that I need  
> At Hogwarts, Hogwarts  
> I think I'm going back...
> 
> I'll see my friends, gonna laugh 'til we cry  
> Take my Firebolt, gonna take to the sky  
> No way this year anyone's gonna die,  
> And it's gonna be totally awesome!
> 
> ("Gotta Get Back to Hogwarts," from AVPM by Team Starkid)

**Tuesday, December 28th (Continued)**

 

Harry paced his room on shaky legs, his bare feet cold on the wood floor, hands twisting the Gryffindor tie in his hands. Neville had ultimately given him the tie earlier that day - which had not been Harry's intention but he kept it just the same, consumed by only one thought. The same thought that had plagued him since early November:

 

He had to get back to Hogwarts.

 

He abandoned the humiliating slippers - they were difficult to walk in anyway - and would have changed his clothes if he had anything else to wear. The pajamas were soft (with the exception of the warm but scratchy outer robe, which he couldn't stand) and until now he had been fairly happy to have something to replace the red pajamas that Ron had given him so he wouldn't be forced to wear Dudley's old clothes. But now he saw the problem: there was nothing else. He just wanted his Hogwarts uniform back. Hell, he would accept any of Dudley's hand-me-downs at this point if it meant he couldn't be identified as a lunatic in a madhouse.

 

But that's how they saw him. A loon. A nutter, like the blank-faced couple in the lounge. But he wasn't! He wasn't content to sit around in pajamas and slippers, sipping tea without tasting it and receiving visitors every now and then. He wanted to fly - he wanted his Firebolt! He wanted to go to class and trade notes and do homework. Ron got to do homework and he hated it, why couldn't Harry have some homework when he wanted nothing more?

 

Because his hand trembled too much to hold a quill. His legs were wobbly even now, shuffling slowly back and forth around this little room. He couldn't speak, couldn't summon a sound in his throat even if he could hear the question, which he couldn't. He was blind in the dark and he was hardly able to read a sentence at a time. He shuddered to think what Snape would say if he were in the ill-lit potions classroom right now, trying to slice and dice ingredients with shaking hands.

 

Harry blinked.

 

* * *

"That right there, you see?" Healer Larson interrupted. Yes, Albus saw. He saw Harry suddenly sit up straight in his chair, blinking owlishly at the room around him. The boy squinted oddly at Albus and Larson, as if confused - and then the moment passed and he settled back once more, looking distinctly less comfortable than he had been just seconds ago.

 

"Ah..." Albus nodded, recalling her words about time-jumps and memory lapses.

 

"It seems to cause minimal distress," Larson murmured. "It's the flashbacks that are trouble."

 

"And how often are those occurring?" Albus pressed, watching Harry take note of the Gryffindor tie in his hands once again.

 

"Most often upon waking, as I said before," she answered, tucking a stray lock of gray hair behind her ear. "Or if he's late going to sleep, the night brings it out."

 

"Our demons love to visit us in the night..." he agreed. 

 

Larson gave him an impatient look and continued. "It's difficult to describe the frequency, it varies so. Last week, we observed hardly anything that could be called a flashback, or at least none that were particularly distressing. This week, it's nearly every day...or night, rather."

 

Albus let her sharp voice wash over him as he observed his pupil. For he was his pupil still. The Gryffindor tie clasped tightly in Harry's hands was at home, Albus was sure of it. Harry was still in there. He was aware, he could think, he was still Harry. Waves of worry and tension rolled off the boy who now chose to stare down at the tie rather than at his visitors. He sat at the visitor's table in his room, refusing to go near the bed that he had been in for much of the past three weeks. Those green eyes were shrouded by fear and uncertainty; Albus longed to set his mind at ease but they weren't finished yet.

 

"He wants to go to school," he ventured. Healer Larson nodded.

 

"Yes, that's obvious."

 

"What are your thoughts on his leaving this ward?"

 

Larson sucked in a breath as she gathered her thoughts. Her answer would no doubt be straightforward and honest. Albus remembered Jane Larson as a student, many years ago when he himself was still teaching Transfiguration. A true Slytherin. He was delighted to learn that the clever and determined woman was Harry's primary Healer.

 

"I wrote to you nearly two weeks ago that it is my greatest hope for Harry to leave the Janus Thickey Ward," she began. "I'm of the opinion that he could leave today. His motor skills have massively improved: he can mostly dress himself, he's walking short distances on his own, he can even feed himself without too much of a mess, assuming it isn't soup." Albus sensed a 'but' coming and he was not disappointed. "But I would be remiss to recommend him for reintroduction into regular school activities." She grimaced. "Perhaps in time, and with certain accommodations. But not yet."

 

"And what accommodations would you recommend when the time comes?" he asked, ignoring that last part. Larson took notice and huffed.

 

" _ If _ the time comes, he will need a Quick Quotes Quill to notate the lectures, a private dining area to take his meals in relative peace, and brighter classrooms if I'm correct in assuming that Potions is still taking place in those dreary dungeons."

 

"It is."

 

"I have to insist, Headmaster," Larson pressed urgently. "If you bring him back to school too quickly, it will do more harm than good. He won't follow his lectures, he will become discouraged and depressed, and then there's no hope. That's not even touching on the hustle and bustle of the students! He'll break before lunch!"

 

Jane Larson came flaring to life at the thought of Harry's discomfort, and Albus raised a calming hand.

 

"I do not intend to thrust Harry into the lion's den," he chuckled at his own pun, but Larson's eyes were still blazing. "But I truly believe he needs Hogwarts. A slow reintegration would be best, do you agree?"

 

Larson nodded infinitesimally. "A light academic load might even do him some good at this point, but - "

 

"I appreciate your caution. I am wary of overwhelming him but I think he is ready for an empty castle and a few remedial lessons. Next week, the students will return. We can revisit his progress then."

 

"Pomfrey studied under me briefly after her time at Hogwarts," Larson cleared her throat, watching Harry with a multitude of emotions crossing her features. "I'm sure I can work out a schedule with her. I would, of course, have regular check-ups with him to continue his treatment. His physical progress does not necessarily reflect his mental state - "

 

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Albus agreed cheerfully. "In fact, I daresay Harry's grown rather attached to you." He wasn't just talking her up - it was true that Harry had never endured Pomfrey's overbearing attention as readily as he accepted Larson's efficient ministrations. He clearly detested St. Mungo's, but surely he would not resist continuing his treatment under Larson. The Healer bristled, appearing mostly unaffected, but a slight flush around the neck betrayed her pride. "What do you recommend in the way of communication?"

 

"Incantations are still out of the question, you might as well start training him in silent sp - "

 

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he intoned regretfully. 

 

As much as he longed to give Harry every opportunity, as much as he wanted the boy to feel safe and comfortable again by putting his wand back in his pocket, he knew the Ministry was watching closely. Albus recalled Fudge's expression last year when he learned Harry was a parselmouth. He recalled the unconcealed suspicion in the man's voice when he sicked his aurors on Harry last week. The wand's recovery was serendipitous in the chaotic rescue three weeks ago, but if something happened now, if Harry suffered a flashback with his wand in hand… 

 

Larson pursed her lips. 

 

"Once he gets the hang of silent incantations," she said, "spellwork will help him far more than book-learning. His magic needs to recover as much as his nerves and his mind. I realize that foregoing books isn't ideal for exams come spring, but - "

 

"Harry can focus on theory for now." Larson's eyes flashed but Albus plowed ahead. "How might he, say, ask a question about a lesson?"

 

"Those Weasley twins had a clever idea before his glasses were fixed," she said stiffly. "They drew up a parchment full of letters, like a ouija board." Albus pressed a finger to his lips, considering the idea. A bit slow, perhaps, but - 

 

"Splendid," he smiled. "Professor Flitwick will know just the set of spells to create the whole system."

 

"System?"

 

"Something like a Quick Quotes Quill, perhaps? Tethered to a ouija parchment, to spell out the words as he indicates the letters... Yes, I think that will do just fine." Flitwick loved a challenge.

 

"Yes..." Larson remained uncertain, but did not voice her concerns. Albus was grateful. They only had a week before the students returned and he intended to bring Harry back to Hogwarts tonight. A week was an awfully short amount of time for the boy to adjust, but they could only hope for the best.

 

"Harry," Albus said, reaching across the table to get his attention. Harry straightened up instantly, hands still clasping the tie in a white-knuckle grip. Albus smiled reassuringly and raised his wand to his lips, speaking into the handle like a Muggle microphone. Wisps of gold smoke flew out of the end as he spoke, twisting and curling into letters and words. " _ Would you like to return to Hogwarts?"  _

 

Harry read the words floating in the air between them. His eyes widened in understanding and he nodded desperately, clutching the tie to his chest. The words faded. 

 

" _ I'm glad of it,"  _ Albus answered, his face crinkling into a broad smile. " _ We will go before dinner tonight. _ " 

 

Harry looked overwhelmed for a moment, his eyes filling with tears briefly before he swallowed stubbornly and regained control.  _ Still Harry… _ Albus thought somewhat sadly. 

 

" _ Before we depart, Healer Larson and I would like to discuss with you the terms of your transition back to school. _ "

 

Larson sent him an unreadable look before she lifted her own wand and spoke into the handle.

 

* * *

Ron was restless. Harry had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes! He had made a royal fuss about his pajamas, nearly stripping them off in front of the Headmaster. They had clearly underestimated how much Harry despised these pajamas, because as desperate as he was to leave, he would not touch the Portkey until he changed. Dumbledore had had to Floo back to Hogwarts to retrieve Harry's school uniform and now it had been twenty minutes of waiting for Harry to finish changing in the adjacent loo.

 

"Go check on him, Ron," Hermione urged. Ron's ears turned red. The Headmaster was waiting patiently at the table in Harry's room, though Healer Larson had long ago departed after bidding Harry a brief farewell. If Dumbledore could wait, they could too. Ron didn't need to go barging in on Harry in the nude!

 

"He's fine, Hermione," he grumbled.

 

"He hasn't dealt with buttons or zippers yet, he's going to get something caught - "

 

" _ Argh _ , fine!" he hissed, cutting her off before she could paint a vivid picture for them all. He knocked on the door - though he didn't know why he bothered - before opening it and stepping inside. "Harry?" He closed the door behind him.

 

Harry jumped nearly a foot in the air when he noticed Ron, his trousers slipping out of his grip and falling to his ankles. Ron was suddenly reminded of when Dudley's hand-me-downs did the same in their first year, prompting Ron to eventually give Harry a set of his own pajamas. He smiled slightly at the memory but then hastily wiped the smile from his face, lest Harry thought he was laughing at him. Harry stooped to collect his trousers, pulling them up once more and fumbling with the button.  _ Damn you, Hermione _ . He hated when she was right.

 

Harry darted a glance at him, blushing furiously. Ron waved a hand to bring Harry's attention back to his face so he could read his lips. "Can I help?" he asked quietly but clearly. Harry scowled and his flush grew hotter, but he nodded. Ron stepped to Harry's side and reached over, taking hold of the waistband. He indicated the dress shirt and Harry began to tuck it in while Ron fastened the button and then went on to close the zipper before his friend could protest. Harry, still blushing and refusing to meet his gaze, tugged at front of the shirt and Ron gave him what he hoped was an easy-going grin as he began buttoning the now tucked-in shirt. The buttons were small and delicate but Harry had managed to close two of them, which was something at least, even if one had gone through the wrong hole.

 

His Gryffindor tie was undone and draped around his neck. Ron slipped it off, opting to tie it around his own neck first before loosening it, slipping it over Harry's head, and tightening it again. Harry smirked at that move and Ron breathed a sigh of relief. They used to dress together every morning, after all. It was just more of a team effort now. Harry pulled the vest over his shirt and then shrugged on his robe and did up the large fastenings himself, staring into the mirror as he concentrated. Ron drew his eyes away from the little white scars on his friend's hands to watch him in the mirror as well.

 

Harry looked every bit the part of a Hogwarts student. He looked much like he had in early November, nearly two months ago, before this whole nightmare. He had regained the weight he lost, but Ron could see now that he somehow seemed...wasted. Fragile. His usually warm, dark skin was now gray and washed out, and Ron knew he was cold even under all those layers. He was always cold now.

 

But green eyes were shining in a way that Ron hadn't witnessed in months, and when their gazes met in the mirror, Ron ran a dramatic hand through his own hair, preening excessively. Harry's face broke into a huge grin and he repeated the motion, somehow managing to mess up those untamable locks even more. Ron snorted and his heart soared when Harry gave a breathy, hoarse laugh.

 

"Let's go, hot stuff," he said, nodding at the door. Harry led the way, still laughing.

 

* * *

Harry sat up and threw the covers off, swinging his aching legs out of bed. It was the dead of night and he had awoken from another nightmare - they were a knut a dozen for him nowadays but at least after this one, he woke to the familiar walls of the Hogwarts hospital wing. It was almost home.

 

Almost, but not quite.

 

He crammed his glasses on his face and heaved himself off the mattress, his knees wobbling dangerously before accepting his weight. He had done more walking today than he had the past seven weeks combined, and he was about to do even more. He threw his robe on, grateful to have insisted on sleeping in his uniform, and pulled on his trainers without undoing the already-tied laces. They wanted him to stay in the hospital wing - close to Pomfrey, close to his potions - but he couldn't stand being away from Gryffindor Tower another night when it was  _ so close. _ Deep down, he knew that as soon as he was in his own bed, his heart would stop racing, his muscles would finally relax, and he would feel like himself again.

 

Harry left his bed behind and shuffled out of the well-lit hospital wing, only to find himself plunged into darkness as soon as the door shut behind him. Oh, right. He was without his wand and the corridors would not be brightly lit at night, seeing as he had no business wandering around…. Well. This was certainly a setback. 

 

His fingers clutched the doorknob to the hospital wing as he hesitated, eyes wide and unseeing in what was probably near-darkness to most but which appeared utterly black to him. He recalled bitterly how lucky he had been in the past, to wander the halls with only moonlight and the occasional wall-mounted torch to light the way. But it was all dark now...harsh, unforgiving nothingness. 

 

His heart was hammering in his chest. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and forced himself to let go of the doorknob. Keeping one hand on the stone wall and the other in front him, he began moving blindly toward where he knew the staircases would be.

 

* * *

"Lookie, lookie, lookieeee!"

 

Remus shot up in bed, swiping off his sleep mask and fumbling for his wand. He managed to knock the glass carafe of water off of his bedside table before finally finding the blasted wand, which he swung toward the intruder.

 

A familiar and unwelcome face peered at him from a figure floating upside down above his bed.

 

"Peeves!" The poltergeist spun around with a cackle, but remained where he was. "You can't come into my private quarters!"

 

"Oooh, can't I?" Peeves giggled madly. "Then tell me, Loony Loopy Lupin, how am I here now if I  _ can't _ come into your  _ private quar _ \- "

 

"Get out!" Remus growled, blinking sleep from his itching eyes and keeping his wand trained on the ghost.

 

"Not yet I shan't!" Peeves smirked down at him and Remus, a former Marauder and lover of pranks and mischief, found himself wondering what use poltergeists even served for the world.

 

"I'm warning you," he hissed dangerously. "I'll have your hat, I've done it before!" The smile dropped from the ghost's face and Remus was pleased to see a spark of fear.

 

"You're no fun at all," Peeves muttered darkly. "You've lost your sense of mischief, Lupin!"

 

" _ What _ are you still doing here?!" Remus cried, sparks flying from his wand.

 

"Just thought you'd like to know the Potter brat is dying in the Charms corridor!" screamed Peeves nastily as he made a quick retreat through the wall.

 

Silence. The words seemed to echo around the dark room, to echo around his mind blankly, holding no meaning at all - 

 

"NO!"

 

Remus scrambled out of bed and flew out of his quarters.  _ Potter is dying.  _ His bare feet pounded into the stone floor as he whipped around corners and darted down corridors, taking every shortcut.  _ Dying in the Charms corridor.  _ It took an eternity - likely just two minutes - before he made it to the Charms corridor.

 

_ "Lumos!"  _ His voice was hoarse, his breathing ragged. He swept his wand back and forth as he hurried down the hall, looking for any sign of distress, any sign of - "Harry!"

 

A crumpled form lay under a fallen suit of armor. His heart dropped into his stomach. Remus levitated and blew the armor away. He dropped to Harry's side, hardly noticing the violent clanging of the armor landing somewhere down the hall. The boy was breathing, good...and he was coming to! His face twitched and then his eyes opened, squinting up at Remus against the harsh light of his wand. Remus reached out but Harry's breath hitched and he scurried away lightning fast, eyes wide and panicked. Remus cursed himself and then waved the wand in a circle over his head. Torches and sconces flared to life, flooding the corridor with light. Harry, now huddled against the wall, peeked through his arms to look at Remus intently. The full blown panic began to fade into confoundment.

 

"Are you hurt?" Remus asked, pronouncing the words clearly and hoping Harry was in the state of mind to read lips. Apparently not, judging from the lack of response. His urgency was renewed when Harry brushed a hand over the side of his face, leaving a dark smear of blood. "Harry - gods! Let me help!" Remus made to stand but Harry jolted in alarm, and Remus fell back to his knees, at a loss as to what he could do.

 

"What's going on out here?" came a high-pitched voice.

 

"Over here, Filius!" Remus called, glancing behind him. Harry's suspicious gaze followed his glance and he pressed himself more firmly against the wall. "Easy now, he's a bit nervous."

 

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" Flitwick cried, rounding the corner with his wand drawn. A quiet, guttural, keening sound reached Remus's sensitive ears and Harry's eyes widened even further, seeming to bulge out of his skull. Remus cursed himself again. It was his fault for not warning the old wizard:

 

"Put your wand down!" he admonished. Flitwick blinked at him as if he had grown two heads. "He's just come to, he's disoriented," he said. Flitwick didn't seem to understand entirely, but he nodded and pocketed the wand, holding up his hands to show that they were empty.

 

It took them nearly half an hour to gain Harry's trust, or perhaps he finally let them approach only because he was getting tired and had forgotten why he was afraid in the first place. His eyelids were drooping and his head was tilting forward on his chest when Remus and Flitwick reached him. By this point, Remus was frantic but trying not to show it lest his nervous energy renew the fight.

 

"Peeves said he was dying?" Flitwick asked, casting a complicated diagnostic charm while Remus carefully inspected his head for the source of the blood.

 

"Yes," he answered shortly, wiping the smear of blood away with his sleeve. No cut. He ran his fingers through Harry's sleep-mussed hair - hair which seemed to scream  _ JAMES'S BOY! _ at him - but they came away clean. But then where had the blood come from?

 

"Just a cut on his hand and a few bumps and bruises," Flitwick pronounced. "Utterly exhausted, the poor lad..."

 

Remus found a cut on the back of one hand, which must have been covering his head protectively while he was lying in a heap under the armor. Remus made quick work of it and then gathered the dozing third year in his arms.

 

"What was he doing out and about, do you think?" Flitwick mused. "I only just learned at dinner that he was coming back. He should stay in the hospital wing for now, wouldn't you say?"

 

"He must have been trying to make it to Gryffindor Tower," he sighed. Albus had explained all about Harry's determination to leave all traces of St. Mungo's behind, right down to his adamant rejection of the comfortable slippers, which seemed to offend Albus on a personal level.

 

"Isn't...isn't he half blind?" Filius squeaked.

 

"Night-blind, yes," he said shortly.

 

"And without his wand! Got quite far from the hospital wing, considering."

 

Remus shifted Harry's weight in his arms, arriving at a decision.

 

"I'm taking him to Gryffindor Tower," he declared. "I'll stay there with him tonight. Could you send a note to Poppy?"

 

"Are you - "

 

"Quite sure, yes. Send the note right away so she doesn't worry when she makes her morning rounds. She gets up earlier than anyone I know…." Remus was already halfway down the corridor, stepping carefully over the abandoned pile of armor.

 

* * *

**Wednesday, December 29th**

 

"Err...Professor Lupin?" Ron whispered with a hard grimace. No response from the man sleeping in Seamus's bed. Ron glanced at Neville who nodded apprehensively, then proceeded to gently prod Lupin in the face.

 

“Whassat?” Lupin mumbled into his stolen pillow.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Mmm no...”

 

“Professor Lupin?” Lupin cracked an eye open and then sat up so quickly, he nearly brained Ron. “Oi, watch it!”

 

_ “Harry!” _

 

“He’s w-waking up now,” Neville gestured over to the next bed. Ron followed Lupin’s gaze toward the backs of Pomfrey and Larson as they leaned over Harry’s bed, passing potions back and forth and conversing quietly.

 

Lupin scrambled out of the blankets, stumbling over the sheets that were twisted around his bare feet. He wore plain, slightly threadbare pajamas with a huge, rumpled collar. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and there were red creases where he had pressed his face into the pillow all night. It was bizarre to see a Hogwarts professor in such a state. 

 

“How is he?” Lupin asked breathlessly as he approached the far side of Harry’s bed. Ron hesitated, unsure how to answer or if he even should. Messy black hair bobbed into view under Pomfrey’s arm. Harry was slumped against the pillows that were propped up on the headboard; he was rocking slightly, practically vibrating where he sat. His muscles twitched and spasmed, much like they had done constantly just a couple weeks ago, and his face was contorted in pain.

 

“Boys!” Larson barked. Ron jumped, and he and Neville hurried over to join Lupin. “The first dose has had time to work, you see.” It had been ten minutes since they first woke Harry and helped him drink half a vial of the familiar brilliant blue potion, leaving him to tremble and cringe on the bed while the potion slowly took effect. Ron had never felt so helpless, watching as Harry was neither able to wake up fully nor go back to sleep. He was sitting up now but still seemed to be in pain….

 

“Shouldn’t he - ”

 

“He can have the second dose of the nerve tonic  _ after _ these,” Larson interrupted, holding up a green potion and a tub of yellow paste. “The salve goes on his throat, hands, and temples, apply as much as you like. His feet tend to be a bit ticklish at this point so don't even bother unless you fancy a kick in the teeth.” She scooped out a generous amount and began slathering Harry’s skin in the gunk and he bucked back weakly, still shaking. It had a pleasant, sweet smell. Harry’s hands stilled when she coated them in the stuff, then he swallowed a few times when she got to his throat, and finally he breathed a deep sigh when she massaged it into his temples. His face lost some of its tension, though he still looked completely knackered.

 

“What is that?” Lupin asked, gaping.

 

“It’s our little miracle,” Larson replied with a proud smirk. “A special salve developed just for this case. It works on his nerves from the outside in, reduces swelling - it even helps to clear his head!”

 

“Like a strong cup of tea,” Pomfrey added as she took in Harry’s newfound calmness.

 

“Why not just do this stuff first then?” Ron asked, remembering how much pain Harry seemed to be in even after the first dose of the blue potion.

 

“You’ll have to be fairly hands-on when you apply the salve,” Larson explained grimly. “We’ve found it’s best to give him some of the nerve tonic first, to get him past the worst of it before touching him.” She held up the green vial next. “Now the nutrition potion to get something in his stomach, followed by the second dose of his favorite.” This was obviously sarcastic, as Harry swallowed the nutrition potion without a care and then eyed the blue potion with nothing short of loathing before downing it reluctantly.

 

“Do you have all of this, boys?” Pomfrey asked skeptically. Ron caught Larson’s eye-roll behind Pomfrey's back as he answered.

 

“Half of Big Blue, then the salve, then the green one, and the rest of Big Blue,” he recounted firmly.

 

“You’ll have to wait for some time after the first dose,” Pomfrey added. Ron bit his lip against a nasty retort. He  _ knew _ he had to wait. They had just waited ten excruciating minutes, after all, so he wasn’t likely to forget that step. “I’m not sure about this, Healer Larson…”

 

“Ron and Neville have tended to Harry at every other time of day,” Larson clipped. “I’m confident they can handle the mornings now as well.” Ron swelled up with pride but deflated a bit at Larson’s hard glare. “He’ll be relying on you entirely in the mornings. If you’re squeamish about lavatory business, speak up now.”

 

Ron gulped nervously. “N-no, it’s okay, I can - ”

 

“I won’t have him taking a tumble because of some silly sense of masculine pride!”

 

Ron coughed, feeling his ears turn red. “I can handle it, I helped him change - ”

 

“This calls for a bit more than buttoning his shirt, Mr. Weasley,” Pomfrey scoffed.

 

“I’ve got it under control!” Ron spat. Honestly! They acted as though they were leaving an infant with a toddler. He was the one at Harry’s side every day these past three weeks. Blimey, he was the one who went and pulled him out of that hell hole in the first place! He could handle their new morning routine.

 

“And you remember the spell that Healer Larson taught you? Do we need to go over it again?” Pomfrey pressed.

 

“I remember it,” he growled, strutting over to his bedside table and snatching up his wand.

 

“Go on then,” Pomfrey said with a hint of a challenge. “Healer Larson and I are returning to the hospital wing now, but Professor Lupin will wait here should you need assistance.” 

 

Larson caught Ron’s eye and gave him an official sort of nod that made him feel a bit more grown up. Squaring his shoulders, Ron nodded similarly to Neville and together they pulled back the covers to begin the process of getting Harry out of bed.

 

“Loo,” Ron explained, pointing at the lavatory door across the dorm room. Harry nodded, frowning. Once his legs were free, he tipped forward off the edge of the mattress, allowing Ron and Neville take his weight fully as they heaved him to his feet. He leaned on them heavily and they half-carried him to the loo while he shuffled his feet, trying to keep up.

 

“I imagine he’ll be a bit stiff today,” Pomfrey sniffed, rounding on a surprised Lupin.

 

“What did  _ I _ do?” he protested under her glare.

 

“He’s exhausted from all that traipsing about last night!”

 

“I carried him up here.”

  
“Only after he walked half the length of the school!”

 

“After he escaped  _ your _ infirmary!”

 

As the trio passed into the bathroom, Ron kicked the door shut behind them, cutting off the sounds of the argument. He smirked at Neville, then helped Harry out of his wrinkled uniform and into the shower.

 

The showers were fairly open: along one side of the lavatory there were five shower-heads with privacy walls interspersed every few feet instead of completely separate units. The walls came up to about shoulder-height for Harry, which meant Neville could stand on his toes and keep a firm hand on Harry's upper-arm from the other side of the wall while Ron followed Harry into the stall. Harry refused to let Ron remove his pants (Ron’s eyes were getting a work-out with all the rolling they were doing these days) so he stood in his underwear beneath the shower head, tightly gripping the walls on either side of him.

 

Ron realized too late that he was still clad in his own pajamas. He had hoped he might be able to retreat behind the other wall, opposite Neville, to hold Harry’s other arm. But Harry looked ready to keel over: his knees were trembling and he blinked blearily around him like he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Ron grimaced and nodded to Neville, who turned on the shower.

 

Warm water gushed out of the showerhead and hit Harry in the face and chest, causing him to jerk back reflexively. Ron rushed forward and held him up by the waist before he could slip, easing him back in range of the water. Harry leaned forward, pulling away from him. He used his free hand to try pushing Ron away, a dark blush creeping up on his brown neck. Neville readjusted his grip on Harry’s arm, trying to keep hold in the struggle.

 

“Stop fighting me, prat,” Ron huffed, smacking Harry’s hand away.

 

“Do you think he's in pain?” Neville asked nervously.

 

“He’s just embarrassed,” spluttered Ron as the stream of water hit him full in the face.

 

Ron whipped out his wand from his back pocket and hastily performed the spell that Larson had taught them earlier. A bar of soap on the shelf came to life and launched itself at Harry, scrubbing furiously. Harry turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudsy assault on his face, before the soap began to work its way down. Ron had to dart around it while holding Harry upright and in place. 

 

It all happened in just a few seconds: the soap suddenly dove right into Harry’s underpants, causing him to squirm and dance wildly. Ron let out a bark of laughter but then Harry, his arms and torso slick with soap, slipped right out of his grasp. Harry fell forward, battling with the invasive bar of soap. Ron tried to catch him, but he only managed to slip on the slick floor and crash right into him, sending them both careening away from Neville. They slammed hard into the corner of the stall.

 

At this point, the enchanted soap became confused and turned its attention to Ron. It dove into his shirt and Ron cried out in surprise as it began scrubbing at him frantically. He threw himself back and scurried away, the soap following. As he lay halfway outside of the stall, wrestling with his shirt, Neville came from around the wall and stepped over him to get to Harry. Ron’s heart sank as he saw his friend crumpled in a heap in the corner, sopping wet, his hands covering his face and his shoulders shaking.

 

Ron swore loudly, his voice echoing on the walls. He finally managed to terminate the spell on the soap, which was now lodged in his armpit, and began crawling back across the stall. He didn’t hear the lavatory door open but suddenly Lupin was there, hauling him out of the way in order to get into the stall.

 

“What happened?!” asked Lupin sharply, bending to check on Harry’s huddled form.

 

“He fell - ” Neville started.

 

“The soap was molesting him - ”

 

“ - tried to catch - ”

 

“It’s a bloody hazard!”

 

“Enough!” Lupin snapped. 

 

Ron and Neville fell silent. Water rained down on them, the running shower completely forgotten. Lupin and Neville were rapidly becoming just as soaked as Ron while Harry sat in the corner, half-naked and covered in suds. Lupin used a gentle hand to pull Harry’s hands away and tilt his chin up, trying to evaluate the damage. Ron was horrified by the twisted expression on Harry’s face. He was obviously in complete agony, he had trusted Ron to keep him safe and now he - 

 

He was laughing.

 

“You git!”

 

“Ron!”

 

“He’s  _ laughing!” _ Ron accused.

 

“He’s hurt!” countered Neville.

 

“No...” said Lupin slowly, incredulously. “I - well, yes, he  _ is _ laughing!”

 

Harry lifted a trembling hand and pointed at Ron, who looked a right mess in his wet, soapy pajamas and tousled hair. Harry's shoulders were shaking with mirth and once again Ron heard that quiet, hoarse laugh. His own face split into a smile and he joined Harry and Lupin, laughing under the still-gushing showerhead while Neville looked from idiot to idiot, at a complete loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will start jumping forward in larger chunks after this chapter, and then we'll get to the showdown at the end of the story!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> EDIT: June 22, 2018 This fic is on a (hopefully short) hold until I get through some stuff. Not a clever idea to write angst while you're depressed, folks. Not clever at all.
> 
> EDIT: February 28, 2019 The short hold turned quite long, I can't believe how much time has passed! Turns out it wasn't the fic's angst that was keeping me down, but a good ol' fashioned serotonin deficiency. I've got some help now and I'm feeling a bit better with (hopefully) more improvement on the horizon. I fully intend to finish this fic...we're almost there! I will return to this as my situation improves. One of my goals this spring is to give this story its deserved ending.
> 
>  __Find me on[tumblr!](https://fantom-ftnoise.tumblr.com/)


End file.
